if we bridge this gap
by Red Bess Rackham
Summary: PART 1 — After a mission goes horribly wrong, the Avengers end up separated and scattered in time. Tony fumbles through a dangerous world while Natasha works to adapt to an unfamiliar one, both trying to stay alive long enough for Bruce to figure out a way to get them back home. (Part 1 of a 3 part, gen, Avengers epic.) Complete.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/n:** IT'S FINALLY HERE - guys, I've been working on this fic in some form for stupidly long and I can't believe I'm finally here._

 _Thank you to the actual army of betas and cheerleaders over the years who've been absolutely invaluable to me, fixing my mistakes, helping me untangle this beast, brainstorming, and more - I literally would not be here without you: The Beta Branch ladies, stars_inthe_sky, inkspire, and anyone else I've whined/complained/cried at or who has offered me advice, encouragement, etc. Endless love. \o/_

 _A big thank you to my two great artists this Bang, penumbria & dutchoven! Thank you both for your hard work! :D (To see the art, check out the linkage on my livejournal or AO3). Per the Marvel Bang rules, this entire fic is complete and posted on AO3. I will be uploading slowly here on for those who prefer that format, with new chapters every Tuesday and Friday. As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and I'd to hear your thoughts either way. :)_

 _ **Warnings:** This story is rated PG-13 for minor character death, mild/moderate language, and some moderate violence (which will be warned for in relevant chapters). There will be very minor background pairings of Tony/Pepper and Clint/Natasha, but this story is Gen/Action/Adventure. _

_**Timeline:** takes place  after Iron Man 3, but before Thor: The Dark World. Ignores Avengers: Age of Ultron (sorry Laura). _

* * *

**if we bridge this gap**

* * *

 **[ TONY ]**

 _"When confronted with the impossible, the rational mind will grope for the logical." – Claire, Outlander_

* * *

Hector Lazarus was a piece of work.

First, he claimed he was from the future and started monologuing about his super-evil plans. Second, he'd brought some weird looking machine with him: it vaguely resembled an upside-down mushroom, that hummed and buzzed softly. The widest part sported several panels that glowed with an eerie pink light. Third, he said the thing was a bomb.

Tony was pretty annoyed his team's peaceful Saturday had been interrupted by a call for the Avengers to assemble and bag this lunatic. He was ready to blast the dude and call it a day—or let Natasha at him—when Lazarus' device lit up and glowed steadily brighter. As the team traded worried looks, the guy giggled (no, actually freaking _giggled_ ). Thor casually elbowed Lazarus in the face to shut him up, knocking the mad scientist out cold. Tony couldn't help smirking a little as Lazarus crumpled to the floor.

There was a loud rumble overhead and all around, like thunder. The floor gave a great shake. Thick metal walls slammed into place, trapping them. From there, it only took four seconds.

 _One one-thousand._

"Oh my God…" Tony whispered, fearing the worst—the bomb was detonating. He looked to Natasha.

 _Two one-thousand._

The beeping changed to a constant, piercing tone accompanied by a loud whirring noise.

 _Three one-thousand._

Tony slapped down his faceplate. His team members dove for cover. There was an explosion of ice cold air that blasted them off their feet, they were blinded by a flood of brilliance, and they were falling, surrounded by noise and light.

Then, nothing at all.

 _Four one-thousand._

* * *

Tony moaned as he regained consciousness, aching like he'd been bashed around by Mjolnir, despite the protection of his suit. His HUD display was dark as he cracked open his eyes, relieved to discover that at least he was not, in fact, dead.

"J? You there?" Tony asked the darkness, though he dreaded the answer. "JARVIS?"

 _Must've been damaged in the blast,_ he thought when he received no response of any kind. He sighed. _Well, that's inconvenient._

Tony struggled to a sitting position so he could reach the manual overrides on his suit. Popping off the faceplate, he squinted at the brightness around him until his eyes adjusted and he took stock of his surroundings. His breath hitched and his gut jolted with shock.

The air around Tony was thick with the smell of the outdoors. He was in a forest, full of huge, leafy trees in every direction. Sunlight peeked through the tangle of branches overhead, washing the area in shades of green and yellow. The ground was a mix of fresh grass, fallen leaves, and pine needles. Nearby, visible in between tree trunks, was a blue pond. A pair of small birds dashed over the water's surface.

Tony took a deep breath, trying to slow his racing heart. Last he remembered, he'd been standing with his team, facing down a crazy mad scientist and his weird machine. In a crappy old house. In New York. Tony knew the guy had once talked a good game about a theoretical physical displacement device—maybe it wasn't so theoretical after all.

Glancing around, Tony neither heard nor saw any threats—the forest was pleasantly quiet, filled with the occasional chirp of birds or the rustle of a breeze—so he extricated himself from his armour and stood up, debating his next move. His suit lay open and empty at his feet.

With any luck, the others would be nearby. They'd find each other, figure out where the bomb had dropped them, and then get themselves back to New York to deal with Lazarus and the fallout. Tony's stomach twisted as he thought of what they might find. Had part of the city been destroyed? Obliterated? Thousands dead? Or had they all been displaced like him and the team? Scattered around the planet, dropped into the middle of nowhere?

For that matter, had Lazarus' house been reinforced enough to even contain the bomb? Were the Avengers lucky enough to be the only ones affected by it? Tony certainly hoped that was true. Hell, maybe _he_ was the only one special enough to have been displaced, and the others were still standing around, wondering where he'd gone.

With their track record, he figured anything was possible.

Tony crouched down and popped open a small panel on the right side of the suit. He tugged out a pair of cables and used them to bundle the armour up as best as could, preparing to pull it behind him. The last time he'd had to resort to hauling a dead suit behind him, he'd crash-landed in the snow outside of _huppitzville,_ Tennessee. At least it was warmer here—wherever here was.

He grabbed his cell phone from his pants pocket and was surprised to discover it was completely dead.

 _Of course_ , he thought with frustration. _The one time I need it more than anything._ With a sigh, Tony put the useless thing back in his pocket.

The sun was directly overhead, meaning it was probably the middle of the day (his digital watch was fried and blank like his phone), and didn't give him a clue as to which direction was north. Even if Tony knew which direction was which, he had no idea if heading that way would get him anywhere faster than heading any other way. He shrugged, picked a direction at random, and started walking.

He'd only taken a handful of steps, the suit scraping away pine needles and leaving streaks of dirt in his wake, when the quiet of the forest was broken by some distant noise, coming closer. Tony's instinct was that it was his team, but in the next instant, he realized it sounded more like hooves trotting over soft ground. He amended his thinking to _horse_ and/or _possible threat_.

He tossed a frown at his lifeless machinery and glanced around for a suitable hiding spot. Before he made a move, he spotted the horses and their riders calmly making their way through the trees in his general direction.

Tony squinted at the riders as they approached. They were dressed in some sort of armour, complete with swords and chainmail. They chattered good-naturedly with backwards wording and English-like accents, reminding Tony of the way Thor spoke.

"Of course," he grumbled with the roll of eyes. "Of all the places in the world to get dropped, I get dropped outside a freaking Renaissance fair."

* * *

Tony waved his arm over his head and _halloo_ -ed the approaching riders. They changed course and trotted their steeds his way.

"Greetings, sir," one said, reining in his white horse. He raised a quizzical eyebrow, taking in Tony's appearance. "What brings you to these woods, stranger?"

Tony chuckled. "It's a long story, fellas. Point me in the direction of the nearest city? Or, better yet, can I get a lift back to the fair so I can make a call?"

"I apologize, I do not know of what you speak," he glanced at his companion who was as equally baffled. "Pray tell, are you lost?"

Tony sighed. "Yes, I'm lost. Just take me to the fair so I can get a taxi or find somebody with a phone."

The riders exchanged confused looks.

"Your speech is quite peculiar, stranger," said the second man, astride a handsome brown horse. He looked Tony up and down, taking in the long-sleeve black tee and dark pants. "As is your attire."

Tony thought this was a bit rich coming from a pair of guys fully decked out as Knights of the Round Table, and who had pretty weird accents and manners of speaking themselves. It was sort of British, but a really bizarre sounding kind of British, with something else he couldn't identify mixed in there, too. Either way, Tony was torn between being a little impressed that the guy had mastered such an authentic-sounding accent and mild irritation he wouldn't drop it and give Tony some damn directions.

"Where do you hail from? What is your given name?"

 _Like they don't know_ , Tony thought with a shake of his head. He may not have had the signature blue glow emanating from his chest anymore, but he was still rather distinctive looking. And ridiculously famous.

"Look, I'm really not in the mood to play along here, guys," he said, holding his hands out before him beseechingly. "It's kind of an emergency."

When they didn't reply, and continued to stare at Tony as if he was potentially from another planet, Tony looked from one to the other.

"You're really not going to break character for even a second, are you?" He scrubbed his hand over his face with irritation. "Okay, fine."

Attempting to channel his inner Thor, Tony swept his arm out and bowed low. In a loud booming voice, he announced, "I am Sir Tony— _Anthony_ Stark of…Winterfell. Through a…great accident, I have been stranded—separated from my, uh, companions and request…assistance. And who, pray tell, are thee, my fair countrymen?"

Almost immediately, the two guys seemed a lot more helpful and Tony silently cursed medieval nerds everywhere. The men introduced themselves as Sir Alric of Newcastle and Sir Dommal of Berwick, knights of the English realm, in the service of the honourable and mighty King David. Based on Tony's use of "sir" in his fake introductions, the pair indicated they were pleased to encounter a fellow knight and were at his service in this time of trouble. Tony fought not to roll his eyes at their over-the-top earnestness.

"Are you injured?" asked Dommal, the younger of the two men, as he dismounted.

"No, I'm fine," Tony replied. "I just need to find my… companions so we can journey home."

"Is this your…armour?" Dommal squatted beside Tony's bundle of metal, clear green eyes roaming every inch curiously. "'Tis queer."

"Hey," Tony protested. "It's state of the art, extremely technologically advanced, and pretty awesome, if I do so say so myself. Granted, I built it, so I _can_ actually take the credit for it being awesome. It might be suffering from a severe glitch at the moment, but…"

The riders were peering at him with perplexed expressions again and Tony rolled his eyes.

"Right, sorry," he waved his hand at them and then cleared his throat. "Yes, _'tis_ my armour and it was recently damaged in the _great accident_ I spoke of, fine sirs. I require tools and a, uh, dwelling in which to commence repairs on it." He finished with a cringe—he was terrible at this.

"We have a smith at our camp who may repair it for you, Sir Anthony Stark," Alric offered with a gentle smile. He looked to be about forty years old or so, with fine lines around his eyes.

"Just Tony is fine. Or Sir Tony if you must." Tony sniffed.

"Very well, Sir Tony," Alric inclined his head in Tony's direction, and his long bronze hair dusted his shoulders. "Come with us to our camp to refresh yourself after your troubling journey. Perhaps Sir Dommal and I may be able to aid you in finding your lost companions."

"Thanks—I mean, thank you so very much, my fellow knights." Tony barely restrained himself from adding, "of the Round Table" and making a comment about Merlin. Given how into character these guys were, he didn't think they would even respond to the joke, so he didn't bother.

Dommal offered to let Tony take his horse, but Tony had never particularly had a love for the creatures—something about their size and potential for incredible strength rattled him a bit, he supposed. They were dangerous at both ends and crafty in the middle—so he politely refused. Dommal insisted on hitching Tony's bundle of armour up to his saddle, however, and let the horse with drag it through the trees instead of Tony. He was just glad that they were finally moving—the sooner he got away from these geeks and back to actual civilization, the better.

"Where is it you hail from again, Sir Anthony?" Alric inquired as the horses plodded along at a slow walk so Tony, on foot below, could keep up.

"Oh, uh, Winterfell."

Alric made a _hmm_ -ing noise. "I have not heard of that place before."

"Really? It's pretty famous where I come from," Tony smirked. "The Starks of Winterfell are a big deal."

Dommal looked impressed; Alric thoughtful.

"Perhaps I might visit someday," Alric said. "Is it near? In England?"

 _If he's trying to say I'm not supposed to pick a fictional place for this game of theirs, I'm not playing along_ , Tony thought.

"Nope, it's not in England. It's in Westeros—it's very, _very_ far away. I'm not surprised you haven't heard of it."

This left the pair looking even more puzzled than before, but at least Tony was able to get them off the subject of trying to make him come up with a period appropriate backstory.

"I, for one, am pleased that you are of English descent, though your accent is strange indeed," said Dommal after a few moments. "When we spotted you in the woods, we feared you were one of those Scottish pigs until you spoke."

Dommal and Alric shared a hearty laugh. Tony wasn't sure why this was funny, but he forced out a bark of laughter all the same. He was only going to humor these guys as long as absolutely necessary.

They arrived at what Alric called their camp. Scattered around were dozens of canvas tents and thrown-together ramshackle huts. The huts looked like they'd been constructed out of mud, reeds, wood, and grass. There were pens for animals of varying sizes: some containing horses, others with smaller animals like dogs, pigs, and chickens. Men in armour, similar to the kind Alric and Dommal wore, trod back and forth, going about their business. A fewer number of women passed by them with armfuls of straw and wool, buckets of water, or baskets of food.

Tony found himself impressed against his will. It was all very well done and authentic looking, down to the last detail. The smell of dirt and manure was thick in the air, which made him wrinkle his nose and wonder why they'd had to make the fair _quite_ so authentic.

As he took in the sights and sounds (and pungent smells), Tony wondered where the fair-like things were—not that he'd even been to a Renaissance fair before, but weren't there supposed to be booths with crappy swag or silly medieval themed games and stuff? Hot dog and donut booths? And where were the normal-looking people not dressed in costume milling about? Unless there wasn't those things at these fairs—he really had no idea.

He shrugged, brushing it off. Maybe this was just one section of the fair—he didn't know how big these things were—and maybe this was the live re-enactment section or something (did they have those? He decided they probably had those). A prickle of unease rose high in his chest but he stamped it down before it could take root. Everything was totally fine.

People nodded in greeting to Dommal and Alric, observing Tony with curious or suspicious looks. Several stopped to openly stare when Tony passed by with his bundle of red and gold metal. He ignored them irritably. _Yeah, yeah, I'm not in costume,_ he thought. _Sue me._

Across the camp a group of men on horses came riding into the camp looking worse for the wear, all banged up and filthy. Some were blood-spattered and injured too, made to look like wounded soldiers returning from battle.

"Ah," said Alric. "They have returned."

To Tony, Dommal explained, "They departed a fortnight ago to aid in the construction of another magnificent monastery commissioned by King David. We shall meet with them to hear what news they bring from Paynekirk."

 _Oh joy_ , thought Tony grouchily, but he didn't comment.

Alric and Dommal dismounted their white and brown horses respectively. A boy who couldn't have been more than seven years old rushed up to take the reins of the men's steeds and lead them to the stables. The knights led Tony to a sloppily-made hut with a thatched roof and walls made of wood planks. He ducked in the door after them.

The interior of the shack was hot and muggy despite the cracks between the wood of the walls. Two other men were inside: one was older and stooping with graying hair and a gentle seeming demeanour, while the other was a huge man decked out in knightly armour, tall and stocky with a chest like a barrel, and great, meaty fists. The second, Tony learned, had returned from the monastery with the riders he'd seen.

"Welcome back," Alric greeted with a respectful tilt of his head. "How fare our fellow Northumbermen?"

The big man grunted. "Well as can be expected, what with the heavens emptyin' every last drop of rain o'er those lands. Crops are drownin', men are slavin' for David in the muck and mire to raise that damn monastery…Old Wyck says it's goin' on near 'leven days straight."

Dommal approached the man with a pewter tankard of ale. "Could be worse, though, aye?" he said as the man grasped the ale gratefully.

"Aye," he agreed and took a big swig of his tankard before setting it down with a loud thunk. He began extricating himself from his various pieces of armour.

"Look, would you mind doing this all later?" Tony interjected. He was trying and failing to be patient. That prickle of unease was back, making his shoulders tense; he worked to ignore it. "I did say I was kind of having an emergency, didn't I?"

As the big guy slipped off his gauntlets, he turned his frowning gaze on Tony.

"I'm sure this is all very important," Tony continued. "And _you're_ very important—"

"Mad John is one of our finest warriors," Alric said, gesturing to the red-headed man. "He has braved numerous brutal battles all over Scotland."

"Mad John?" Tony laughed. "Sounds like a pirate. _Arr_ , matey. Not very medieval sounding, I have to say."

Mad John narrowed his eyes. "And who the blazes are you, stranger?"

Tony didn't like this guy's tone one bit, but before he had the chance to retort, Dommal helpfully spoke for him.

"He's Sir Anthony Stark of Winterfell," Dommal said and gestured up and down Tony like he was showing him off. "He's suffered great tribulation recently, losing his companions."

Mad John grunted. "And his manners?"

Dommal chuckled, though Tony didn't find it funny. He was really over this whole charade and just wanted to find a working phone and _go home_. Something was very wrong here, and he needed to get away and figure out exactly what it was.

"Yeah, about that—my companions," said Tony. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Can weplease get on with the finding of them?"

"Patience, Sir Tony," said Alric with a soft smile. "We shall find them, do not fear."

"I don't _fear_. I'm kind of out of patience right now," Tony huffed. "Just point me to the nearest city, _please_. I'm pretty much begging you right now."

Mad John shot Tony an odd sideways look and continued to remove his pieces of armour. He looked about as old as Alric, if not older, though his thick beard made it hard to guess his age. He winced and hissed through his teeth, gingerly accepting help from the quiet gray-haired man in the hut. The old man was wholly uninterested in any of the conversation—in fact, as the stooping old fellow bustled about gathering supplies, Tony got the distinct impression the guy was deaf.

"Mad John, are you injured?" Dommal inquired, frowning with concern.

"Aye, 'tis a scratch," the big man replied and gave a great belly laugh. Tony watched as the last of Mad John's armour and mail was stripped away, revealing the "scratch" he was referring to. The gash was at the point where his arm met his shoulder, and was very deep, bloody, and generally disgusting. Tony shuddered.

"Wow," he commented. "That almost looks…real. Nice job."

Mad John took a mighty swig of his ale, ignoring Tony. He hissed some more at the supposed pain of his wound, settling with a heavy thud on a sturdy wooden chair. The old man set to work cleaning John's cut while Alric, Dommal, and Tony looked on. The makeup really _was_ pretty impressive. All bloody and hanging open like that.

"Ran into a band of ragged Scots." Mad John shook his head, his bushy beard swishing against his broad chest. "Lost Myr, lost Quiet John. Gave 'em a hell of a fight though—had 'em runnin' for their ma's skirts before we even broke our fast."

Alric proceeded to question Mad John about the details of the battle while Tony impatiently tuned them out. His eyes were drawn to Mad John's big, meaty shoulder as the gray-haired man tended to the ugly wound.

The old guy dug the needle right into the flesh, sewing Mad John's skin closed. In and out, in and out. Tony realized he was staring, but the longer he stared, the more real the injury looked. In fact…

Bile rose in his throat, that uneasy sensation from before washing over him hard and fast like he'd fallen into a tank of ice water. He'd never been super squeamish, but that was a nasty wound, and worse, it finally, fully dawned on him that _that wasn't makeup_.

 _That's what's wrong_ , he thought, his heart pounding in panic. _The wound is real. Fuck—it's all real._

His knees became liquid and he lashed out to grasp the table for support. His head spun. The pieces fell into place. Lazarus' device had been a _displacement_ bomb—he'd assumed only a physical displacement had occurred, but clearly it'd been physical as well as temporal. Freaking _temporal._

This wasn't a Renaissance fair. This wasn't people in costume. This wasn't people playing at medieval life.

This _was_ medieval life.

* * *

 _ **A/n:** So, creative license with the language here. In this timeframe, though English is widely spoken, it's Middle English (which as far as I can determine is basically a blender of English, Norman, French, and Germanic bits and pieces). It's considered a "low" language, mainly spoken by uneducated peasants and the like. French was used more in the courts and amongst nobles, interestingly even in England. I looked up a ton of maps, and while Tony is currently physically located in the English-speaking section of Scotland of that time, technically the English they'd be speaking would probably be rather unrecognizable. So just like movies have German guys speaking English with German accents…in order to make this understandable, I'mma have to Hollywood this thing. ;)_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/n:** This fic is #1 in a series of 3 connected multi-chapter fics. They will be fully written and will be posted one after the other in the coming months. Parts 2 and 3 will feature a different combination of Avengers, so don't worry if you don't see your fav here just yet—they're coming in the new year. ;)_

* * *

 **[ NATASHA ]**

 _"If the Universe came to an end every time there was some uncertainty about what had happened in it, it would never have got beyond the first picosecond." – Douglas Adams, Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency_

* * *

Natasha hadn't stopped running since the moment she'd woken.

She had opened her eyes to find herself surrounded by nighttime in some decrepit old building. Natasha sat up, aching and sore, her mind sluggish and fuzzy. Dim firelight from outside flickered along the cracked walls. _What the hell?_ She glanced around to see where her team was, when there was series of bangs and pops. Bits of shrapnel rained down from the wall as bullets punctured the cement.

Natasha had leapt to her feet, all senses and instincts on alert. She'd dodged and rolled, reaching for her own gun but finding it missing. She couldn't see where her attackers were, though, and spun away from the bullets flying to dart into the next room. From there, the next wall was mostly just a giant hole leading out to a darkened urban landscape, and she ran. She didn't know where she was. She tried to take stock of her surroundings but the gunfire followed her. She ducked and sprinted.

Wherever she was, it was a war zone. Buildings crumbled against each other, burned out and blackened shells. They were reduced to rubble or were abandoned, decaying skeletons with sooty scaffolding reaching helplessly to the night sky. Debris and garbage littered the streets, barrels of fire sat scattered at intervals like streetlights. The only people she caught glimpses of seemed to be the ones shooting at her: shadows in windows or lumpy, blurred shapes that pursued her as she sprinted onwards.

"That's it! Run, you craggin' Scud!" someone hollered after her. She peeled away from another round of gunfire.

Natasha looked for signage as she ran—any clue to where she was. There was evidence of shops and stores, long since gutted, the signs above their doors covered with years of graffiti. She passed a shop holding a charred mannequin, painted white; a rope circled its neck. On the wall behind it, read sprayed painted words: _Fuck the Coalition!_

She slowed her pace for a second to stare. _The Coalition_? She didn't recognize the name at all. Before she had time to further question it, bullets spattered over her head. With a jolt, Natasha took off again.

She raced for her life for what felt like a long time—perhaps twenty minutes, now. Her adrenaline kept her going, but fatigue was fast taking its toll and she struggled to keep going. The bullets aimed her way grew fewer and farther between—she'd lost her pursuers perhaps eight or so minutes ago, but she refused to slow too much and chance that they'd catch up to her.

Her limbs burned and the cramp in her side twinged with each hard step. Her pace had decreased significantly, and sweat soaked her clothes, but the edges of the dead city finally neared. Past them, there were no more lit garbage cans or piles of burning debris; it was a lake of darkness, unbroken with no moon or stars visible above. A crooked, broken metal sign once marking the city limits had been spray-painted with the words: _Dead Zone._

Natasha forced her body to keep going, aiming for the black. She could survive in the shadows. She'd been doing that all her life.

* * *

Natasha doggedly put one foot in front of the other. The darkness was thick and stretched for eternity.

After leaving the urban area bursting with shooters behind, she had so far discovered nothing but empty desert, spotted with boulders, random debris, and the odd cactus or desert shrub. The sky was devoid of any stars; probably hidden by cloud cover. It was inconvenient; spotting the moon or some constellations right now might at least be able to help her nail down a continent.

As it was, Natasha was fairly confident she could rule out Canada and most of Europe. There were no deserts like this—open, flat, and red—in Canada. The longer she walked without running into any signs of life, the more certain she grew that her location was not in Europe. She would've been able to see something in the distance by now if it had been. But no faraway city lights colored the sky faintly orange, no sounds of planes broke the silence, no sign of animals marred the ground—nothing. Just her and her tired feet crunching over dirt, sand, and occasional clumps of spiky grass.

She wished the blast hadn't damaged her watch so she could've at least had an estimate of how much time had passed. She knew from experience that adrenaline and then the lack thereof could make time seem to pass far slower than it actually was. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed she'd left the burning city far behind. Based on distance alone, she guessed she'd been walking for a solid two hours.

Natasha did her best to logically sort out what had happened to her and the team, and what her next course of action ought to be. But with so many unknowns, it was a frustrating course of thought. She hoped wherever the rest of her team was, they were faring better than her.

Relief washed over Natasha when a dark building loomed in the distance, though it was quickly replaced by wariness and a spike of alertness. She didn't relish getting shot at again. Instead of approaching the building head-on, Natasha skirted it wide, coming at it slow and using the various boulders scattered around for cover when she could.

A heavy-duty fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the building. Her first thought was, _Thank God, a government building,_ because that was something she could work with, even if it happened to be an unfriendly one. She infiltrated buildings like this on a regular basis. Hell, maybe if she was really, miraculously lucky, they'd even be affiliated with S.H.I.E.L.D. and she'd be able to get in touch with Fury or someone.

However, as she observed the building more closely as best as she could in the dark, it was as shelled-out as the city she'd left behind. The front gate had been blasted open at some point and was a dusty twist of metal. The building itself was missing most of its roof and all of its windows. A swift perimeter check revealed the entire back half of the building was fire-damaged and riddled with holes.

Natasha frowned. What kind of a warzone had she woken up in?

Even as abandoned as it appeared on the outside, Natasha wasn't stupid. She was no stranger to warzones. Everything wasn't always as it appeared. Just because a building looked empty didn't mean there wasn't half an army hiding inside. But seeking shelter for the rest of the night seemed like a good idea. She could regroup in the morning and give her aching limbs a rest while she could. She retrieved a knife from her belt.

Natasha was as silent as the shadows around her as she made it to the building. She crept past walls, slipped in through open windows, and kept her knife out and ready. Her senses were on high alert, her body fluid and ready for any threat… but none came. As she moved about the building, she discovered nothing but dust and rubble.

Satisfied and weary, Natasha chose the far corner of a room in the least-damaged section of the building, and settled down for a light sleep. She didn't loosen her grip on her knife, though, just in case.

* * *

"Hey. _Hey._ "

Natasha blinked and jumped to her feet, the sleep fog clearing fast as she got into a fighting stance, knife out and ready.

"Hey, whoa, relax," the man in front of her threw his hand up in defense. His other arm shouldered a large gun, however, so Natasha did anything but relax.

In the time it took for the guy to take a few steps back and put his hand up, Natasha had already taken in the entire scene before her. One man: tall, blonde, stubbly beard, scarred arms, large gun, five feet straight ahead. Three men and one woman behind him, all armed, wary and suspicious but not yet on the offensive, ten feet away. Another woman, also armed, standing guard at the room's entrance, back to the others.

The group was clearly some sort of team, though, judging by their stance and organization, they were not military. At least, not all of them—the black woman standing guard and the red-headed guy to left of the blond in front of her both held themselves like former military. It was also daylight outside, probably morning, though there was an unusual hazy quality to the sunlight streaming in the holes in the ceiling.

"Where're you from?" the blond man asked. There was an odd lilt to his voice, some accent Natasha couldn't quite identify yet.

She had no idea where she stood with these people—enemy? Or friend?—nor what kind of an answer to give. _New York? Russia?_ she thought. _Out there? That city back there where everyone was trying to kill me?_

"I'm Garrett," said the blond with an amiable nod, as if introducing himself would put her at ease. He peered at her with concern. "You keen?"

Before she could reply, the eyes of the brunette woman to Garrett's right went wide with astonishment. "Holy cragging hell, she's unclassified."

Garrett's gaze went to Natasha's hands and he gaped at her.

He lifted his arm up and she tensed, ready for an attack, but he merely showed her his wrist. Encircling it was a tattooed band of white. Natasha flicked her eyes to the others. Of the wrists she could see that were not shielded by clothing or weapons, they each had a band of color tattooed on them. A few sported a blue-gray one, two wore black. She couldn't see if anyone else had white like Garrett.

"How's that even possible?" the red-headed guy behind and to the left of Garrett asked nervously.

"She must've had rebel parents who kept her hidden," Garrett replied with a shrug, lowering his arm, but he sounded unconvinced. To Natasha, he said, "That about right?"

Natasha hated feeling so in the dark and completely off-kilter like this. She had yet to glean any information to help her determine whether being a rebel's kid was a good thing or a bad thing with this crew. She didn't love the idea of taking a 50—50 shot at her answer, only for them to kill her if she chose wrong. Granted, none of them seemed aggressive, but most people didn't immediately seem aggressive.

And what the hell did he mean by 'unclassified'?

Taking in her still defensive stance and tight-lipped silence, Garrett raised both his hands slowly to shoulder height.

"Hey, look, we're not here to hurt you," he said. He dipped his head and fixed her with his open, seemingly sincere, blue-eyed stare. "We were patrolling past the Dead Zone when we found you. We were only checking to make sure you weren't a Scud."

"Or a Coal," one of the men tattooed with a black band chipped in.

Garrett smiled. "Yeah, or a Coal."

Natasha had no clue what the hell they were talking about and told them so.

Garrett's handsome face pinched with confusion. "Wait, what do you mean?"

"What do _you_ mean? Where am I?" she tried instead.

The people surrounding her exchanged puzzled and mildly concerned looks.

"In the desert outside the Dead Zone," the brunette woman answered.

"No, _what country_?" Natasha bit out, hating that she had to ask. It felt like tipping her hand and she already was at a major disadvantage.

Garrett peered at her like she was on drugs. "New Australia," he said. "Were you captured? Did the Coals do something to you? They bleach you? It wouldn't be the first time we've run into this sort of cragging shit."

It was like he was speaking a brand new language. New Australia? Coals? What the hell? At least now she could place the accent influencing his voice, though it was mixed with shades of other accents. But _New_ Australia? Natasha was pretty damn good with geography. There wasn't a country called New Australia.

But she could also tell when people were lying, and this Garrett guy absolutely believed the words he was saying. His eyes had taken on a look of genuine worry that was as confusing to her as the words coming out of his mouth. He frowned and swore under his breath.

"I think she's definitely been bleached," he said to his companions. To Natasha, he held out his hand carefully, palm out, his features open and trusting. "Look, it's okay, we can help you. We don't work for the cragging Coalition, and we're not Scuds either."

"Not anymore," the man with a black band on his wrist assured her.

"We shouldn't be lingering out here with all that open space," Garrett continued. He gestured at the desert visible through the nearest crumbling, glassless window. "We'll get you to a base and we can talk. Sound keen?"

Natasha had a thousand and one questions. The last thing she wanted to do was blindly trust this stranger and his band of weapon-wielding pals. But what choice did she have? They hadn't killed her outright which was a good sign, but they severely outnumbered her.

She decided to go with them for now, until better options (or answers) presented themselves. She relaxed her stance and lowered her knife but didn't let her guard down in case this was all a trick.

Before she had the chance to say anything, however, one of Garrett's companions stationed outside as a lookout hollered out a warning.

"Incoming beamer!" he shouted. "Get gone, get _gone!_ "

Garrett's team readied their weapons as they ran for the nearest exit, yelling orders and commands back and forth. Natasha barely refrained from breaking Garrett's arm when he snatched up her wrist and started running, recognizing he was trying to help her and not trying to hurt her.

Gunfire erupted outside, and Garrett dove for cover. Natasha followed. There was the sound of roaring engines, more gunfire, and Garrett told her to stay put. He jumped up and ran out of sight. Voices screamed in pain, and Natasha's hands shook as she squeezed the hilt of her knife.

Usually, if she was in a warzone, she knew who the enemy was. She would have an idea of who was shooting at her, and most of all, she usually was at least somewhat familiar with the location and could formulate an exit strategy.

Now, she had never felt more blind and frightened.

She wanted to bolt, but where the hell would she run? She had no clue where on the globe "New Australia" was, no idea if running north or west would take her to safety or civilization or into the waiting arms of the enemy. But she sure as hell couldn't stay here and get shot either, no matter what Garrett had said. Frankly she didn't know him from Adam, and she had no reason to trust him yet aside from the fact that he hadn't shot her dead the moment he found her.

She took a deep breath, shoving her fear deep, putting it away to feel later. She peeked over the crumbling wall she crouched behind. A handful of bodies littered the ground. The gunfire moved a little farther away, to the south. She braced herself and took off for the north entrance.

The moment she crossed the threshold of the building, she regretted her decision.

A dozen men and women clad in white-and-black armour were waiting for her. Her instincts flew into overdrive. Natasha kicked and punched, knocking away guns and batons. Something struck her between her shoulder blades, like a quick stab of electricity that made her stumble, but she didn't stop. It must've been some sort of tranquilizer—the next thing she knew, her legs wouldn't support her, and she crashed into the dirt with black spots swirling in her eyes.

She fought to stay conscious, trying to get back up, but her limbs wouldn't respond. Three of the armoured people crowded her and wrestled her useless arms behind her back. Shouts and gunshots melded together into something indiscernible. Natasha caught a glimpse of Garrett and a red-headed woman barrelling out of the building. She wanted to warn them away, but her lips only twitched. The armoured people converged on them, tackling them to the ground. Garrett howled like a lion until they zapped him, too.

Then the world melted into darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/n:** I just want to give an extra double special shout-out to my betas, because honestly you readers, you have no idea how much wrangling this beastly story has taken. To Stars (the most awesome beta there is), and to my Beta Branch ladies, especially Hope (with speedy edits and much-appreciated excitement and character discussions) Cari (who kept assuring me this thing really is worth doing) and Joy (who knows history like nobody's business). Thank you, thank you, thank you - I can't say it enough. Your help (in all forms) has been invaluable. \o/ \o/_

* * *

 **[ TONY ]**

 _"If you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." –Spock, Star Trek (2009)_

* * *

Tony's arms shook as he struggled to stay upright, using the table for support. The others in the room watched him with mixed looks of concern and puzzlement.

"Sir Tony?" Dommal peered at him, worry creasing his young features. "Sir Tony, are you well?"

"Never seen a battle wound before, you puppy?" Mad John grunted and sneered.

"No, I…" Tony's chest felt tight and compressed. _Displacement bomb._ He couldn't breathe. _Displacement._ "I…just—I need air…" _Not just displaced on the globe—displaced in time...goddamn mother effing..._

Dommal and Alric glanced at each other, about to say something, but Tony left them behind, bursting out of the hut and into the camp. He felt trapped and bombarded from every angle as his eyes frantically darted this way and that. A man leading a horse across the dirt; a woman getting water from a well; a pair of men sharpening swords and laughing deep and loud; men loading a wagon— _it's real, it's real, it's real…_

Tony took off for the forest, back the way he'd come earlier with Alric and Dommal. His feet pounded across the grass. His heart threatened to smash out of his chest. He spotted the pond in the clearing he'd woken up in earlier and he bee-lined for it.

 _The bomb—it wasn't just physical space—oh God, oh God…_

He crashed to his hands and knees at the water's edge, his breath still coming short and shallow. He knew from experience that it was a panic attack, and he fought it down, struggling to get his focus back. He splashed his face with the pond water a few times, sucking in deep shaky breaths.

But he was in medieval Scotland. Freaking _medieval Scotland_ . And genius he may be, but how in the _hell_ was he supposed to get out of here and back not only to New York (which wouldn't exist for, like, a thousand years, _literally_ ) but back to his own timeline?

It wasn't like he had any sort of tools or technology that he could jury-rig together and invent a damn time machine. He was so far removed from the modern world, he'd never even see _electricity_ , let alone hold a piece of working tech in his hands, as long as he lived here.

He stared at his wavering reflection in the rippling water.

 _There has to be a way_ , he thought, heart bashing against his ribs. _There has to be a way, somehow. I can't be stuck here forever. I can't, I can't—I can't leave Pepper behind, this cannot be happening. Breathe—there has to be a way out of this. Steve and Clint say there is_ always _a way of any—_

" _Augh!_ " Tony jumped backwards away from the water. His reflection had just changed.

He told himself that it was impossible, and crazy. He was potentially suffering from a psychotic break due to the fact that he'd woken up in _freaking medieval Scotland_ like fifteen minutes ago. It still took him a good second or two before he very cautiously ventured forward to peer at the water again.

"Tony?"

And now the water was speaking to him.

"Yup," Tony nodded, collapsing his head into his hands. Through his fingers, he mumbled, "I've gone insane."

He heard a familiar chuckle. "You haven't gone insane. Well, _yet_."

God help him, the disembodied voice sounded like Bruce.

"That's very reassuring coming from the…from wherever you're coming from," said Tony.

"Look down."

"I'd rather not."

"Tony, _look down_."

Cringing and reluctant to entertain any further delusions or hallucinations, Tony peeked between his fingers at the water's surface. Instead of his own reflection, however, or the reflection of the forest and sky around him, he saw the face of one Bruce Banner. His friend smiled sheepishly at him, a plain gray wall in the background.

Tony stared through the crack in his fingers.

"Um, I'd say don't freak out, but I think it's a little late for that," Bruce winced.

"What's happening," Tony said—a flat, demanding statement rather than a curious question. "What the _hell_ is happening. Bruce, I'm in goddamn medieval Scotland!"

"Yeah, uh, about that." Bruce cleared his throat. "You're all right, though? Not hurt, or…you're okay?"

Tony made a loud scoffing noise and shook his head. "Oh, _awesome_. I'm just awesome, Banner. This morning I was eating cupcakes for breakfast and now I'm living out flipping _Braveheart!_ "

"You know most of that movie was largely fic—"

"Really not the time!"

"Right, sorry. Look, I know this is a lot, but you need to calm down—"

"Calm down!" Tony popped to his feet, feeling hysterical, and paced.

It was supposed to be a normal mission. Just disarm a bomb and go home. They'd done it dozens of times before. And once he realized what the bomb was capable of—not that they'd had time to actually disarm the thing—it was just supposed to be a physical displacement deal. Scotland? Sure, fine. Scotland in _whatever the hell century_ this was? So freaking not fine.

What if he was stuck here? What if he never went home? Never saw Pepper again? Or Rhodey? Never again talked to JARVIS? Or the rest of the Avengers?

Another panic attack rose inside of him and he forced himself to look back at Bruce's reflection, to shelve his fear and focus on the science of this whole shit-show. Anything to quell the tightness taking hold in his chest again.

"Where are _you_?" Tony demanded. He curled his hands into fists at his sides and squeezed until his nails bit into the skin. "And how are you doing this? How'd you find me?"

Bruce shifted uneasily. "I'm in Boston."

"What's it like?" He relaxed his fingers. Exhaled.

"Different." His gaze flicked away to something Tony couldn't see and back again.

Tony narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to ask what Bruce meant by that, when his friend spoke first.

"We don't have much time, so I have to get right to the point. I need to know when you are, as accurately as possible."

Tony huffed. "I have no freaking clue. Medieval times, Middle Ages, Dark Ages, whatever the hell ages. There're guys walking around in suits of armour and coming home from a goddamn battle."

And, really, if he wasn't so freaked out, he'd have to admit that was pretty cool. Who would ever have such a chance to see history like this? (Besides the other Avengers, maybe, depending on where they'd been stuck.)

"There isn't anything you can tell me to help narrow it down? 'Medieval times' isn't, uh, the most specific description."

"Okay," Tony pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to recall exactly what Mad John had said earlier in the hut. "They…they mentioned some guy…David. Some guys were helping to build a monastery or something."

"King David?" asked Bruce curiously. "If that's who they were talking about, that narrows it right down to something like eleventh or twelfth century. I'll have to double check the exact dates, though."

Tony raised an eyebrow. "You just know who that is off the top of your head? Seriously? What're you, Wikipedia?"

Bruce shrugged. "I really like history, and I used to have a lot of time on my hands, remember? There was a ton of reading involved." The corner of his lips turned up in a smile that was part embarrassment and part pride. The image of him wavered.

"How're you doing this?" Tony asked a second time.

Bruce either ignored him or didn't hear him as he flickered again.

"Bruce? Am I losing you?"

"—hear me?" the other man finished, and Tony shook his head.

"Say again," he prompted.

"I need you to promise you won't do anything stupid."

"Define 'stupid'."

"Tony, I mean it—we don't know what kind of an effect having you guys scattered through time will have, so you have to keep your head down," said Bruce gravely.

"Wait, the others aren't with you?"

Bruce shook his head. "You have to blend in and survive, and you can't do anything that might jeopardize the course of history."

Tony chewed his lip. "For example?"

Bruce glared, like he shouldn't have to give one, but replied, "Like using or leaving behind any trace of modern technology. Anything. The armour, your phone, clothes—"

"My _clothes_? You can't be serious."

"Tony, if someone discovers a, uh, polyester blend shirt a hundred years or a thousand years from where you are now, it could change the trajectory of history in ways we can't predict. You have to destroy everything."

"So you're already assuming I'm going to take my shirt off? Bruce, I have a girlfriend." Tony flashed his friend a grin.

" _Tony_."

Tony pressed his lips together and couldn't help pouting a little. He understood what Bruce was saying—having archeologists dig up something modern could have dangerous ramifications. He was reminded of _Back to the Future_ and the events of the sequel where an alternate, horrible timeline was created because of one mistake.

His _clothes_ , though?

"Promise me, you'll—"

Bruce's reflection blinked and shimmered. Tony could see Bruce's lips moving but could no longer hear his voice.

"Bruce? Hey, I can't hear you. Lost the connection I think."

The image disappeared completely.

"Bruce?"

Tony waited for several seconds for his friend to reappear, and when he didn't, he concluded that Bruce was officially gone.

He was painfully alone again. At least there was a light at the end of the tunnel, however small, if Bruce was able to work on a solution where he was to bring him and the others home. Tony wondered where the rest of the team had been thrown; Bruce hadn't said. He was really going to be pissed if somebody got to go to some _Star Trek_ future while he was stuck here.

Tony grabbed at a handful of grass and tossed it to the side in frustration. He was trapped and helpless here, and rather at a loss as to what to do next. It wasn't like he had any way of helping Bruce, and he certainly had no way of building a device himself. Not unless he could invent, well, _everything_. He was so far back in time, it was a wonder that people had ever functioned this way, let alone survived.

But that's what he had to do, he supposed: survive.

Tony gave himself only another few moments to have a pity party over his situation, before he pulled it together and got down to business. As he walked back to the camp, he ran through what he needed to do next.

(And tried to _keep breathing_ which should not have been so hard. He clenched his fists as he walked.)

He had to deal with his armour and his tech, for starters. Much as it pained him to do so, he wasn't about to be the guy who completely effed up the entire space time continuum or something by leaving behind a piece of modern tech. His mind spun with a million and one possibilities, but he took Bruce's advice to heart: he would do his best not to mess up history (well, he'd sure as hell try, anyway).

He still thought it was mind-blowingly cool to be here…after the initial huge shock had worn off, of course.

Tony sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. So, medieval Scotland. He could do this. Sure. He knew lots of things about the Dark Ages. Like there were knights and ladies and castles and stuff. And battles and…wait, wasn't there a massive plague that wiped everybody out at some point? God, he hoped he wasn't anywhere near _that_ little nugget of history. The last thing he needed was to die by the Black Death or bubonic plague or whatever while he was stuck here.

As he reentered the camp and observed the utter primitiveness surrounding him, Tony swallowed hard. He honestly knew very, very little about medieval times. Well, past what he saw in the movies and on _Game of Thrones_ , but he was pretty sure that didn't count.

 _Blend in_ , he thought, remembering Bruce's words, and frowned. _Right_. He inhaled slow and steady, fighting the tremble lingering in his hands.

"There you are, Sir Tony!" Dommal exclaimed, striding across the dirt. "Are you quite well? We feared for you when you tore off in such a state."

"I'm fine—I'm well," Tony replied with a shrug, quelling the burst of nerves in his stomach.

It hadn't mattered before that he was different and not from here (physically and temporally speaking) because he hadn't known better. Now, he was having visions of being burned at the stake or getting his head in a guillotine if he stood out too much—that's what they did in those days, right? _These_ days? He suddenly worried everyone could see right through him and knew he didn't belong, so he fought to keep his cool.

 _Don't panic, don't panic,_ he thought. _Time to improvise._ He put his hand to his head, wincing as if he had a headache (not entirely untrue).

"Sir Tony?"

"Ah, you know what… I took a pretty bad blow to the head in the accident I mentioned, and I'm, um, afraid it's messed me up," said Tony, hoping he sounded convincing enough.

Did amnesia exist here? Could he "invent" it without accidentally causing an apocalypse?

"I'm really disoriented," he continued. "And I can't remember things, even simple things. In fact, just treat me like I don't know anything, and hopefully my memory will come back soon on its own."

Dommal's concerned expression cleared somewhat. "I see. Truly, I have seen similar injuries before. They are quite tricky and bewildering."

"Yeah, so, pardon my, er, _strangeness_." Tony cringed. That took care of his lack of knowledge about, well, everything. Now he just had to deal with the clothes and armour issue.

"It's quite all right, Sir Tony. Things like this happen." Dommal reassured him with a smile. "We shall take good care of you here, and I shall be your guide until you are reunited with your companions."

"Thanks, buddy," Tony replied without thinking.

"Bud-dee?" Dommal repeated unsurely.

"Yeah, it's—it means friend."

"Ah! Well, 'tis no trouble, _bud-dee_."

Tony chuckled and relaxed. He decided he liked Dommal.


	4. Chapter 4

**[ NATASHA ]**

 _"I thought you might appreciate it if I gave you the impression I knew what was happening. We could panic, but where would that get us?" –The Doctor, Doctor Who_

* * *

At first, they kept her confined to a white cell containing nothing but a simple cot.

Blank walls surrounded her and the only sound was a dull hum of the air system hidden somewhere in the flat, featureless ceiling. The bed was as devoid of detail as the handle-less door—smooth and flush, with no legs, edges, or springs. The head of the bed was raised, soft, and rounded, like a built-in pillow. There were no visible light fixtures, yet the room was brilliantly well-lit. Everything was white, including the jumpsuit she found herself wearing.

There was nothing she could pry up, break, or bend to use as a weapon. Years of training kicked in and she simply sat back on the bed and waited.

 _If they think any of this'll break me,_ she thought, _they have no idea who the hell they're dealing with._

After the shoot-out at the abandoned building with Garrett and company, she'd woken up here, her wrists encircled before her by a peculiar, smooth thing. It wrapped around both wrists and met in the middle, binding her hands. It looked plastic, but a couple of experimental hits against the wall had it vibrating like some sort of metal.

She was no stranger to being a prisoner. The fact that she was one now, frankly, bothered her a hell of a lot less than the unanswered questions she had about what she'd stumbled into and where she was, exactly. She'd always been a master at adapting, but it was impossible to adapt if she didn't have an inkling what she was she supposed to be adapting _to._

It was difficult to tell how much time had passed, but eventually someone came for her. She could've snapped his neck and made a break for it, but there was no sense blindly charging out into some unknown situation. Natasha let him lead her out of the cell—she'd play the prisoner role and learn what she could.

The guard led her from the white cell, down white corridor after identical white corridor. She had to work hard to remember their route as every hall was exactly the same, like the place was some very deliberate maze. She tried to take in any details to help her determine her location—or anything else, really—but there was nothing. Just more white, everywhere she looked.

Natasha clenched her jaw tight and plodded forward.

The guard marched her through a door. The room beyond, as with everything else, was stark and white. The walls, the high ceiling, the chairs surrounding the glass table, the invisible lights that made the place glow softly, the guard's uniform, and the clothes of man waiting for her. It was inexplicably almost pleasant, albeit completely sterile and bland.

She got the impression it was a Very Important Room. At one end of the long, opaque glass table sat a slim, bored-looking man with thinning gray hair. He gestured for her to take a seat at the other end of the table and she did so warily. The guard who'd escorted her exited the room, leaving Natasha and the gray-haired man alone.

He regarded her thoughtfully for a long moment and she met his green-blue eyes, showing nothing in her own expression.

"Who are you?" His voice was soft and smooth. He didn't fool her for a second.

 _Go ahead and play the good cop,_ she thought. _I can do this all day._ She didn't answer aloud.

"Who are you?" the man repeated. "You're clearly one of those treacherous rebels, but what is your name?"

She didn't react aside from blinking.

He fiddled with the tablet before him—it was so thin it resembled a sheet of stiff silver paper—and returned his gaze to her.

"Can you speak?" he inquired. His mouth rested at a slightly crooked angle, like he had an amusing secret he would never share.

She once again declined to give him anything, still assessing him while he attempted to assess her. Curiously, the man—who Natasha was going to call "Gray" for now—looked unbothered by her silence. He returned to poking at his tablet. Tiny holographic readouts flashed above the tablet's surface.

Natasha held her ground as the quiet stretched on. If Gray expected her to get uneasy enough that she would spill her guts, he was sorely mistaken.

"Scans indicate your vocal chords are undamaged," said Gray without looking up. "So my conclusion is that you simply don't wish to speak."

 _Point for you_. She wondered where and how he'd scanned her, and fought away a flutter of nerves in her stomach.

"Scans also indicate that you're unclassified," he continued. "Which is a significantly more curious matter."

There was that word again: unclassified _._ Natasha was torn. She could ask that meant, but asking meant showing her hand. It meant admitting she was freaking clueless about everything thus far. Her eyes flicked to his wrists, not quite covered by his long sleeves—a white band circled his left. No, she wasn't going to him an inch.

" _Very_ curious indeed," said Gray. He yawned.

Natasha wondered if he was in fact playing electronic games on the tablet before him, based on his apparent focus on the thing and his disinterest in her. _Just his tactic_ , she decided. She'd stay impassive—she'd give him nothing. Not until she had a card of her own to play.

"You know, I've dealt with hundreds of your kind, so this little silent routine is nothing new." He dashed his finger across his tablet. "All I want to know is who you are and why you were in an abandoned facility in the Dead Zone with that group of illegals."

The expression on his face turned into something patronizing with a shade of sympathy.

"You know, of course, that area is off-limits," he said, raising his dark, thick eyebrow at her. "And that band of merry men and women are wanted criminals."

She blinked at him.

He straightened in his chair and there was a hint of irritation in him now, she was pleased to note. Maybe the silence bothered him. She kept still, kept watching him watching her.

"How do you know my son?"

 _Son?_ That was a curveball.

She flipped through the faces of the people she'd met and landed on the leader, Garrett. The shape of his face fit with Gray's. _Interesting._

"Are you another of his… rebels?" Gray, apparently Garrett's father, asked. The word dripped with distaste. "Mixed up in something you in fact know nothing about?" There was that patronizing, sad expression again. " _He_ wouldn't talk to me either, if it's any consolation." He flexed one of his hands, making a fist and stretching his fingers out.

Natasha's gut jolted. So Garrett hadn't gotten away. She couldn't help feeling sorry for him—he'd seemed like a decent guy, and getting captured and interrogated by his own father had to be a pretty grim experience.

"Natasha?"

She almost flinched when she heard her name, and barely managed not to react further to hearing Bruce's voice. Across the table, Gray shook his head and looked to his tablet again. He gave no indication that he had heard Bruce.

"Natasha, hey, can you hear me?" the physicist tried again. "Natasha?"

She sensed movement at the edge of her vision and glanced down at the glass table before her. Where before there'd been an opaque reflection of the glowing white walls and ceiling, now there was a reflection of Bruce. She only just stopped herself from gasping out loud in surprise.

"Hey, can you see me? Can you hear me?" he moved his head from side to side.

She snapped her eyes to Gray. He hadn't moved aside from flicking his finger across his tablet. His brow was creased and his eyes darted back and forth as he read something. She looked at Bruce again and gave him the smallest of nods.

His shoulders sagged in relief. "Okay, thank God. How are—are you okay?"

Her pulse raced. She swallowed and kept her features still, her body made of marble, but _hell_ was it good to see a familiar face.

Natasha checked on Garrett's father again—she couldn't exactly answer Bruce without alerting the man that something was up. It was already a puzzling miracle he couldn't hear or see Bruce same as she could. She shifted in her seat a little bit again, moving her arms from the edge of the table, positioning her hands close to Bruce. She gently tapped her finger on the table in a series of beats, careful not to click her nail on the glass surface. She really hoped Bruce could read Morse code.

 _Fine. Lost. Captured._

"Natasha? Can you—oh..." Bruce's brow furrowed with worry and there was a long pause as he waited for her to complete her message. He leaned out of frame, mumbling, and the image of him jiggled and fizzled for a moment. It steadied and he asked her to repeat her message, slower this time.

She in turn waited while he translated her taps. He murmured them out loud after each one.

"Er," said Bruce. "I don't suppose you at least know _when_ you are? What, uh… year? Or century?"

Her eyes widened despite herself.

Bruce explained how Lazarus' machine had scattered the team in time, as well as physical location.

 _Well,_ thought Natasha. Her insides writhed with a wave of shock. _That explains a lot._ She forced herself to breathe evenly, to stay calm, despite the spark of panic in her chest.

It was easy to see now that she knew. Based on the technology she'd encountered and the other clues she'd come across so far, she didn't think she was in the past.

 _Future._ She tapped to Bruce—though she had yet to have any indication of how far in the future.

"Year?"

 _No._

"Hmm, okay, do you know _where_ you are, then?" asked Bruce.

 _New._ Natasha tapped.

"Your vitals are exceptionally curious," Garrett's father, Gray, piped up. His voice startled Natasha. She resumed her gentle tapping, trying to finish her message to Bruce.

"'New'?" Bruce repeated.

"They indicate you are much older than you appear, yet you show none of the usual genetic manipulation markers," Gray continued. He tapped at his lip thoughtfully. "Where, oh where, did my wretched son pick you up?"

"Who is that with you?" Bruce cut in, speaking at the same time as Garrett's father.

 _Australia_. Natasha softly drummed her finger against the glass. She struggled to focus on both Bruce and Gray as they talked over each other.

"You are a puzzle, though one I frankly can't be bothered to unravel at this juncture." Gray sighed.

"New Australia?" said Bruce and his face wrinkled with worry. "Something clearly happened—"

Gray drawled, "Now, I _could_ sit here, wait you out, perhaps—"

"In history to change things on a global—"

"Employ some scary or brutal interrogation tactics—"

"Scale to cause a new _country_ to form, unless it was a much more local incident…" Bruce trailed off, chewing his lip.

"To uncover the truth about you and your little friends. But I think you and I both know that would be a waste of both of our time and energy, wouldn't it?" Gray offered her a sharp, ice cold smile. "Besides, I've quite had my fill of violence for today, and I have other matters to attend to."

Natasha swallowed and forced her eyes to stay locked on her interrogator. Everything in her wanted to look down and speak to Bruce.

"Nat, if you're in the future, we have no way of knowing what—"

Gray cleared his throat. "Now, I'm a reasonable man and I would hope you are a reasonable woman."

"Happens or what has happened to that point in history."

"I'm going to give you one chance, one choice."

Natasha fought the urge to shout at them both, demanding they shut up. Bruce's image shorted out, while the placid man across the table seemed to be quite done with her.

"You need—outta there, okay?" said Bruce, his face and voice wavering like bad transmission. "Get—safe, find—going on."

"Explain to me who you are and why you were in the Dead Zone with my son and a band of rebels." Gray set his tablet down to steeple his fingers. The screen was blank. "Tell me how is it that you have no circlet. Tell me what he is doing, what he is planning."

"I'd tell—lay low—not mess—history like—others, but—"

"Should you choose to continue to withhold this information, if you choose not to comply, then you shall be slated to be bleached, or—"

"If—far—time—shouldn't—you do, theoretically—"

"Terminated. Violently, as I would terminate a cragging carnie. I have no use for dead weight."

Natasha grit her teeth. She was just about to say something—directly to Garrett's father, but indirectly to Bruce—when her friend disappeared. His voice ceased altogether, and after a quick flick of her eyes, she confirmed his reflection was gone too. For a second she was relieved not to have to contend with the warring voices, but she was disappointed by the loss. She hadn't managed to glean as much as she needed to from him.

Gray sighed through his nose and gestured with two fingers to the guard who'd appeared at the back of the room. Natasha had hesitated too long.

"No, I…" she trailed off. She had no loyalty to Garrett and his rebels, and even less to this man before her, but she also had no information to give. "I don't know anything," she finished.

Gray's lips quirked into a cruel smirk. "Yes, that's what they all say."

When the guard grasped her forearm, Natasha seized the moment. She swung her bound hands at him, catching him in the jaw. The guard stumbled backwards, yelping in surprise and pain. Natasha darted for Gray. He sneered at her and slapped his hand down on his tablet—a move she thought strange, until electricity seized her body, emanating from the cuffs.

Natasha dropped to the floor, muscles tight and coursing with pain. It wasn't quite like her Widow's Bite, but it was similar, and hurt like hell. When the current stopped a couple seconds later, she was too weak to stand, let alone fight. Worse still, she was bizarrely cold, like she'd been dipped in ice water. Her teeth chattered. What had he done to her?

Garrett's father cursed under his breath and stared at Natasha with disgust. "You idiots," he said. "You'd think you'd have learned by now."

Natasha's muscles twitched and she inhaled a shaking breath.

He bent down low, sneer at her again. "Give me what I ask for, crag, and you will be spared and repurposed. Think your decision over carefully." He moved out of her vision. "Get her out of here."

The guard was back and he gripped her forearm again. He heaved her to a standing position and she fought to keep her feet under her with gooey, trembling legs. The weird freezing cold aftereffect seeped away, but she still shivered all over.

They dragged her down several pearly white hallways before they came upon anyone else. An angry scream sounded and two guards hauling a woman came struggling around the corner. Natasha's guard swiftly tugged her to the side and pressed her against the corridor wall. Natasha clenched her jaw, wanting to break the guy's arm for man-handling her.

The woman let out another wild yell. She was bound the same as Natasha and fighting her captors every step of the way.

"You cragging Pockers!" she shouted, lashing out to kick at them and falling in the process. They hauled her back to her feet. "Let me go! Let me _go!_ "

 _Pocker?_ Natasha flicked her eyes to her guard. He was tense: hand on the gun at his hip, pointed away from Natasha.

It was the red-headed woman from Garrett's crew. Bruises and cuts marred her face, blood and dirt stained her uniform. The woman threw her hands in the air and wailed.

The lights in the hall flashed and crackled, though only for a second. The guards flanking the woman bellowed at her and one slammed her in the gut. The woman collapsed and cried out as the binders on her wrist glowed blue. Natasha didn't know how they were doing it but guessed that the woman was experiencing the same icy, electric punishment Natasha had received in the interrogation room.

"Get up, carnie!" the guard on the woman's left spat, giving her a harsh kick.

Natasha flinched, holding herself back. She had the urge to help the woman, but didn't know how with these damn cuff-things on. She'd be of no use to anyone if she landed herself twitching and moaning on the floor beside her.

When the woman groaned and failed to stand, the guard kicked her again.

"I said get up!" he shouted, brutally slamming his foot into the woman a third and fourth time. She let out a shrill wail of pain.

Natasha cringed again. "Stop it," she murmured.

Natasha's guard snapped his gaze to her. "Shut it, crag, or you'll join her." He pressed his arm harder into her collarbone.

Her cheeks warmed and she glared balefully at him. _You're going to lose a limb, you bastard._

Tears poured down the woman's injured face as the guards jerked her onto shaking legs. Her eyes finally landed on Natasha and widened with recognition.

"Don't let them kill you," she pleaded. Her guards yanked her forward. "Save yourself—get out! Don't let them win! _Don't let the Coals—!_ " The last part ended in a scream as one of the guards jabbed something into her side. She collapsed, silent. The guards took hold of her arms and lugged her the rest of the way down the corridor. The woman's legs dragged lifelessly behind her.

Natasha's stomach roiled. What the hell had she just watched?

"Let that be a lesson," Natasha's guard snapped. He resumed his harsh grip on her forearm, pulling her away from the wall.

"A lesson for what?" Natasha bit out.

His fingers tightened. "Powers, you crag. Use them and you're dead, just like that carnie."

 _Carnie?_ Whatever that meant, it was clearly not a friendly term based on the context she kept hearing it used. She wondered how Clint would feel knowing that word was being used as a vulgar insult. She almost smiled, picturing his scowl and "aww, no" mutters.

Her guard deposited her none-too-gently back in her featureless room.

"Can I get these off, now?" Natasha held out her arms.

The guard snorted and left the room. The smooth white door slid into place noiselessly behind him.

Natasha sighed. "Worth a try."

She settled onto the bed and ran over what she knew—which was terribly, terribly little. Her insides squirmed and she tamped down her fear and frustration. _Logic first. Emotion after._

So she was in the future, though she had yet to determine how far. It appeared to be at least a few decades, based on the technology she'd experienced, not to mention the fact there was practically a whole new language and country to contend with. She knew that whoever was keeping her prisoner really, really liked the color white, and that Garrett's father was some of moderate rank (or higher) official. And he did not approve of Garrett running around with a ragtag group of people—of rebels, apparently.

Natasha laid back until the bed's squishy pillow-area cradled her head. Rebels for what? Or against what? Presumably, this whole white setup. But why? Then again, based on their treatment of Garrett's redhead friend, if the rest of the white-clad people were as cruel as the guards—what had the woman called them again? Pockers?—then no wonder Garrett wasn't a fan.

And what had the Pocker meant by "powers"? The woman had raised her hands and the lights had flickered, which implied she had some way to control or disrupt the electricity. Natasha frowned, her mind jumping to Thor. She'd seen people with superpowers firsthand, so suppose this world simply had more of them? Suppose they were in trouble or ostracized?

Natasha sighed again. She still had so little to go on, it was as good a guess as any. Regardless of anything else, Garrett's father had threatened her with "termination" and there was no way that was a good thing. Though she didn't have any helpful information to give him to avoid such a fate, she wouldn't have anyways, and especially not now. Not after that woman.

Natasha was done playing the prisoner. She refused to get marched to an execution. She'd fight her way out of here and fend for herself or die trying. She was screwed either way, and if she was going die in some apocalyptic future timeline, she was sure as hell going to do it on her terms and no one else's. Besides, she'd learned probably all she could from this place. It was time to find somewhere else to learn more.

Unfortunately, there was still nothing in her room she could use as a weapon. She looked down at herself and her clothes. Then again, maybe there was. The binding cuffs were cumbersome, but she could still use her hands, so Natasha curled up and tested the fabric of her pants. Not easily rippable, but she could still work with that.

She turned up the bottom of the pants and used her nails to start picking apart the threads on the seam. With any luck, she could pull it apart enough that she could rip the frayed cloth and then she'd have something. Wouldn't be much, but it'd be better than nothing.

And then she'd get the hell out of here.


	5. Chapter 5

**[ TONY ]**

 _"...the encounter could create a time paradox, the results of which could cause a chain reaction that would unravel the very fabric of the space time continuum and destroy the entire universe! Granted, that's a worst case scenario. The destruction might in fact be very localized, limited to merely our own galaxy." – Doc Brown, Back to the Future 2_

* * *

Attempting to follow Bruce's advice and not rip a new hole in the space-time continuum, Tony got rid of his tech. He told Dommal and Alric that he needed to melt some objects down. He had ideas about how to get rid of his stuff but decided to start small, just in case. Phone first, armour after.

"This way, Sir Tony," said Alric and led Tony to the camp's smithy. Dommal had other matters to attend to but promised he would see Tony soon.

The blacksmith's forge was a shoddy-looking hut, though bigger than most of the others in the area. Tony followed Alric in the large side door, stepping over a pile of horse dung that had yet to be cleared away. Tony wrinkled his nose in disgust.

The forge's covered windows made it dimly lit inside despite the daylight, and it took a moment for Tony's eyes to adjust. The smell of smoke, horse, and hot metal were thick in the air, and there was a roaring stone furnace surrounded by giant pleated bellows.

Nearby it stood a tall man with bulging arms. He was decked out in a thick leather apron and heavy leather gloves, and he was beating glowing orange iron rods into submission atop a huge metal anvil. His massive hammer clanged loud and sharp with every strike. Tony flinched, flashing back to another dark place where he'd been out of his depth and the one beating metal into submission.

Alric caught the blacksmith's attention and made introductions. The man was Renfred, and he had a bushy, black mustache over wide, frowning lips. He agreed to melt down Tony's peculiar set of items (phone, watch, and his magnetic bracelet). Tony made a mental note to see if he could find the right set of chemicals to destroy the melted metal in its entirety later, as he couldn't re-forge the stuff into something new afterwards—that'd probably still be breaking Bruce's rules, given the alloy's components.

While Alric and Renfred discussed battles and monasteries and pilgrimages or whatever, Tony set about smashing his tech to pieces with a hefty hammer. He frowned at the pile of glass, metal, plastic, and microchips. He'd liked that particular phone.

As Renfred got back to work, Alric led Tony through the maze of huts, tents, stables, and shacks.

"We shall see to finding you some fresh garments, free from the wear of your recent travels and mishaps." The knight smiled. "And perhaps less conspicuous in these lands?"

Tony glanced down at his black tee and dark denim pants and thought they were just fine, thanks very much. But he heard Bruce's warnings in his head again, and simply nodded. He _did_ stick out, admittedly, but he was used to people staring at him, so it hadn't bothered him much before.

The hut was like the others Tony had visited so far: small, dark, smelly, with dirt floors and a thatched roof. He really hoped he wouldn't have to spend the night in one of these things during a rainstorm; he imagined they leaked like a sieve. Tony waited by the small hearth while Alric dug around the "rooms" of the hut (really more of a common area and a bedroom-ish area separated by hanging canvas).

"Here you are," said Alric, handing Tony a pile of thick, folded clothes.

"Thanks," Tony nodded at him again. He held his grateful smile in place as the knight bowed and left to give Tony a moment of privacy.

Tony hated the new clothes immediately, even before he'd pulled them on. Everything was rough—some sort of wool or linen that was itchy as hell—and it was all plain, unremarkable browns and faded greens. The tunic was too long, the belt was just a rope, and the leathery boots felt far too thin to do any serious walking in. Tony glanced down at the uncomfortable looking pants and the obvious lack of underwear provided.

 _Sorry Bruce,_ he thought with a frown, pulling the scratchy fabric on one leg at a time. _I'm keeping the briefs._ The terrible clothing was bad enough—there was no way in hell he was doing it commando-style on top of it all. He gritted his teeth and tried very, _very_ hard to ignore how itchy all the new-old clothes were.

Sighing with disappointment, Tony scooped up his bundle of clothes and crossed the hut's soft, dusty floor. He hesitated by the door and wondered how long he was going to be stuck in these duds—and in this place. He clenched his teeth together and ignored the flutter of panic that zipped down his spine.

"Those garments suit you, Sir Tony," said Alric with a nod of approval once Tony was outside again. The ends of the knight's long bronze hair swished against his shoulders.

 _Like hell_ , thought Tony, wishing very much to be back in his t-shirt. "Yeah, thanks," he said absently, his eyes scanning the area.

He spotted a large bonfire that some of the other knights were stoking. Grimacing, Tony headed towards it and threw his twenty-first century garb onto the fire. He turned away and rejoined Alric outside his hut; he couldn't bear to watch his shoes burn. Those had been custom-made, comfy as hell, and damn expensive.

"You needn't have destroyed your old garments," the knight commented, his brow creased with confusion.

"They were…I don't need them anymore. Ever. Never mind."

 _Back to the melted phone problem_ , he thought. Luckily, he had a couple of ideas. It was just a matter of whether he could get the right ingredients or not—he had no clue when certain chemicals had been invented or discovered in history.

Out loud to Alric, he inquired, "Do you guys have a chemist, or…alchemist or something, by any chance?"

Alric inclined his head. "As it happens, we do indeed. He is our healer and travels with us. May I ask what it is you require?"

Tony didn't have the energy to come up with something creative on this one. "Look, it's not going to make sense for me to explain it to you in full, but I need some, ah…ingredients to help with…getting rid of the remains of those…objects I left with Renfred. _Entirely_."

Alric raised his eyebrow, curious and skeptical. "Have you not already placed it in Renfred's care to be melted? Is that not enough?"

"It would be, if it wasn't going to get hard again once it's cooled down," replied Tony. He added as an afterthought, "It's a custom from my homeland. To completely destroy all traces of…extremely damaged armour." That could totally be a thing, right?

He'd have to figure out how to dispose of the whole suit later. Even if the local alchemist had the right chemicals to mix up the stuff Tony was thinking of, there was no way he'd have enough to deal with the entire Iron Man get up.

The knight narrowed his eyes a little, but then shrugged and led him to the apothecary. "Your country is very peculiar, Sir Tony. Quite unlike anything I have ever heard of."

"Oh, you have no idea," Tony laughed.

"Mayhap I can aid you with ridding yourself of your armour," Alric said thoughtfully. "Should our alchemist not meet your needs, I know of a vast quagmire just west of here. We've lost livestock to that area numerous times over the years. Would that suffice?"

Tony chewed the inside of his cheek. Barring throwing his suit in Loch Ness, that sounded like as good a plan as any. A big, deep swamp would swallow up the suit nice and permanently.

"That sounds great."

Alric nodded. "Then I shall take you there on the morrow. First, let us seek out Godwin for your other items."

An incredible amount of stuff packed the alchemist's hut to the brim—at first glance, Tony thought the word "hoarder" was applicable. Shelves lined the walls, overflowing with bottles and vials of every color and size, placed three or more deep. Ancient, dusty volumes were shoved in gaps between urns and casks, and some laid open atop the boxes piled about the floor. Bags of spices and herbs were stacked haphazardly here and there, with unopened sacks of varying sizes crowded nearby.

There were bowls, spoons, measuring devices, maps, piles of rags, bandages, and more—wherever Tony looked, he saw something new. The air was thick with smoke and strange, strong smells Tony couldn't identify…and probably didn't want to, based on the rows of unsettling jars full of _what the hell is that_ along the back wall. Strange-looking equipment of metal and wood surrounded the table in the middle of the room. At it sat the alchemist, overlooking a spread of powders, liquids, and scales, as he fiddled with a mortar and pestle.

The alchemist turned out to be the crooked, stooping old man Tony had seen earlier—the one who had tended dutifully to Mad John's wounds. And as Tony had earlier suspected, he was deaf. Or, he was so hard of hearing that he might as well have been.

"His name is Godwin Raleigh." Alric picked his way around the crowded room to the table and the old man. Tony followed trying not to knock anything over. "He is quite brilliant, if rather unable to carry much of a conversation. Poor devil had his tongue cut out years ago, and his aged ears do not hear well."

The knight yelled to Godwin, as politely as he could, to make introductions. The alchemist was bothered by and suspicious of Tony, despite Alric's declarations that the newcomer was simply a friend in need of aid. Alric then set up refilling his stores of this herb and that spice, while Tony got to work communicating with Godwin.

There was a lot of yelling, hand gestures, and diagrams and words scratched out on parchment with inked quills, but in the end, Tony was very lucky. Turned out the chemicals he needed were in dusty vials in the alchemist's apothecary after all, _and_ the old coot was even familiar with the solution Tony intended to make.

"Ah, ah-ha!" Godwin held up a crooked finger and smiled unevenly, revealing a mouth full of stained, chipped teeth. "Ah, mm, hmm, mm!"

He hobbled between his stacks of stuff, humming and gathering things as he went and then returned to the table. Godwin scooped up the quill, and in barely-legible writing, scribbled out a pair of words so oddly spelt that it took Tony a good few seconds to understand.

"Ah," said Tony, decrypting what the old man had written: _aqua regia_ _1_. Tony grinned. "Bingo." He nodded.

 _So it_ has _been invented,_ he thought with a sigh of relief. Bruce probably would've known that off the top of his head, but Tony was pretty rusty on his history of chemicals. _Score another one for me not effing up the universe!_

Godwin promised to make up a batch of aqua regia for Tony, who thanked him heartily. The chemical mixture would be perfect for dissolving his tech into nothing. Tony left the alchemist's hut with Alric.

Tony was at a loss as to what he should be doing next, having dealt with his most immediate concerns, so he followed Alric around, worried that if he sat down and let himself dwell on his situation, he'd freak out again. It was better to keep himself busy.

Alric distributed most of the spices he'd procured from Godwin to the other villagers and made overly formal and polite introductions for Tony. There were way too many strange names and faces for him to keep track of—who the hell named their kid Aberardus anyway?—but he _did_ try. Pepper would've been proud.

By the time Alric had completed his rounds and dropped off the last of his bags at his own hut, the sun was dipping low in the west.

"Come," the knight gestured. "It is time we sup."

Tony's stomach gave a loud grumble—he hadn't noticed he was hungry until Alric had mentioned it, and now he was ravenous. When was the last time he ate? The cupcakes at breakfast? Was that only this morning? God, it felt a whole lot longer than that already.

Tony followed Alric to the biggest hut in the camp. It was as ramshackle and temporary as everything else around here, though three times as long in length. So far the only thing that seemed sturdy and permanent was Renfred's furnace.

Inside the dwelling were a few dozen wooden tables with benches, each crammed with people. At the far end was a large fire, where several women and a few young boys and girls were tending pots and rotating spits. Those featured what looked like rabbits, squirrels, and possibly a chicken or two. At another table set up nearby, women chopped, stirred, and kneaded.

"So this is the mess hall, huh?" Tony quipped, taking in the sights, smells, and sounds. The place was bursting with all three and the billionaire's stomach gave another noisy growl. The scent of roasted meat was tantalizing enough to make his mouth water.

Alric glanced at him quizzically. "This is our _hall_ , yes—where we break our fast and sup together."

He spotted Dommal and Mad John seated at the far end of one table, and the younger man waved them over enthusiastically. Almost the moment Tony had seated himself on the bench across from Dommal and John, the older man berated him.

"Ah, the Man with No Manners," said Mad John, pulling apart a small, speckled loaf of brown bread. "The little green boy who can't stand the sight of blood! Welcome to supper, pup—think you can manage it?" He gave a great belly laugh.

"Ha ha," said Tony humorlessly.

Dommal reached for one of the clay serving platters, intending to load up Tony's bread-plate with warm food. Tony hastily took over, grabbing his own food before Dommal's hands (who knew when those were last washed) touched anything. There were no serving spoons or utensils in sight, so Tony made do. His skin crawled with discomfort over all the handling of the food, to the point that he considered not eating at all, despite the growing rumbles from his stomach.

The younger man gave Tony a nod and filled up his tankard. The pale amber liquid splashed a little bit onto the sticky wooden table. Tony shot Dommal a smile of thanks.

"Don't they fight in Winterfell, hmm?" Mad John continued. Crumbs littered his beard. "Or do the men instead devote their time to the noble arts of needlework and dusting, like a common woman? Perhaps dancing around in their skirts instead of fighting a war like the rest of us?"

Dommal chuckled behind his hand even as he shot Tony sympathetic _sorry about him_ glances.

"You look soft," Mad John snorted and took a big swig from his wooden tankard. "Pale and weak and fogging soft, like a squalling newborn babe. Stark, wasn't it? Should've called you Stark _ling_ instead."

"Okay, why don't you give it rest, big man," Tony snapped, thoroughly finished with the insults.

"Oh ho!" John clunked his tankard on the table with several loud thumps. "My lady speaketh!" He made a mock bowing gesture.

Tony clenched his fist under the table and his face grew hot. It wasn't like he was going to pick a fight with this guy—who was ginormous, by the way, and absolutely _would_ kick his ass in a second flat—but the dude _was_ getting under his skin.

"Lay off, pal," Tony grumbled.

Mad John's bushy red brows came to a head above his wide nose. "What was that, pup?"

Before things had the chance to get ugly, Alric stepped in smoothly, calm and soft-spoken. He laid a hand on Tony's shoulder and pierced John with his sharp gray-blue eyes.

"That is enough for now, John," he said evenly. "Our friend has suffered a blow to the head which has tortured his mind and dispelled many of his memories. We must be mindful of that and fair to his character. In addition, we must respect that Sir Tony is from a different land and notably a different culture. Respect, as a chivalrous practice befitting English knights of our standing."

Mad John cackled at this and spat out a few more women-related insults, leaving Tony insulted on behalf of himself as well as on behalf of women everywhere. Alric's tone grew more serious.

"Enough now," he commanded. He didn't raise his voice in the slightest, but there was an edge to it that no one could miss, like frost on a window.

Dommal had stopped laughing, too, and Mad John flushed red at the rebuke. For a moment, Tony thought the big guy was going to leap across the table and throttle Alric, but he simply laughed again, great and booming, and polished off the rest of his tankard. He announced he needed more grub and rose from the table.

"My apologies for our friend, Sir Tony," Alric dipped his head in Tony's direction as Mad John stumbled away, clapping people on the back and sharing apparently riotous jokes. "He is not as…delicate with his words when he ought to be, especially for a knight."

"My apologies as well," Dommal added hastily, his cheeks pink with drink or embarrassment or maybe a bit of both. "I did not mean to laugh at your expense. That was not fair-minded of me. It was meant only in jest on my part."

Tony waved them off, the fight having drained out of him as soon as the big guy had departed. Frankly, he'd been called worse; having the guy right in his face not letting up had been the part that bugged him. Plus, he was still pretty damn upset about the way his day had gone, so there was that, too. Even so, he was going to have to get thicker skin if he was going to be spending any extended amount of time with the dude.

"No, it's fine," Tony said dismissively. "He's not exactly wrong. I don't have battle experience. Hell, I don't even know how to use a sword."

The words were out before he could stop them. Based on his two new friends' reaction, Tony wasn't sure he could have said anything more shocking if he tried. Dommal's jaw practically hit the table and he dropped the chicken leg he'd been holding. Alric stared as though Tony had grown three extra heads.

"I mean, I don't remember—my father never…" Tony attempted to backtrack, flustered and glancing around the room like someone would help him. "I meant that I'm rusty, is all—it's been a long time." Panic spiked in his chest and he battled it back.

"How can you be a knight and _not_ know how to…?" Dommal trailed off.

"Truly," said Alric, and Tony was sure the guy hadn't blinked yet. "What _are_ the requirements for knighthood in Winterfell, if not skill with a sword and battle experience? Among other things, to be sure."

 _Crap, crap, shit, crap…_

"I—I don't remember?" Tony jerked his hand up to his head and scrunched up his face in what he hoped looked like pain and a struggle to think. "Sorry, I, uh…"

 _So much for respecting my wacky "culture", hey Alric? I guess you can only take so much weirdness._

"Heavenly God," Dommal burst out and gave a startled chuckle. "Whatever you do, do not tell Mad John about this. The man will not let you live it down, Sir Tony."

Tony's stomach uncoiled a little and he offered a hopeful half-smile in the younger man's direction. The panic subsided.

"Sir Tony, I am certain you do know how to wield a weapon," said Dommal confidently. "You are, after all, a knight. Your mind has merely forgotten as a result of your injury. I will help you remember."

"Thanks," said Tony, exhaling with relief. _Bullet dodged? Again? Shit, I'm going to be dead before midnight if I don't watch it._ "I appreciate it."

Dommal dove back into his supper, shaking his head and laughing to himself. He changed the subject to what he'd done that afternoon, which included loading wagons and preparing horses for the camp's upcoming journey.

Alric returned to his meal too, but there was an air of suspicion now that didn't dissipate, though he was not unfriendly. He tried not to think about it, and he dug back into his own food, once again grateful for Dommal. At least if the kid could teach him how to use a sword and some other "medieval basics," maybe Tony could bullshit his way through this world a little better.

Mad John soon returned, with plates of bread and cheese and more meat, and he refilled their tankards, even Tony's, from a pitcher. He was jovial and loud, and while he mostly stayed away from openly insulting Tony as he had before, he still worked little remarks and snide criticisms into the conversation. Tony did his best to laugh it off like they were all jokes and he wasn't bothered, but it was clear Mad John had zero respect for him. Tony didn't exactly appreciate him back, so he figured they were even. For now.

To say Tony enjoyed the meal was a stretch. It filled his belly, and it wasn't exactly horrible. The meat was greasy—the stuff he got wasn't chicken and he didn't want to know what he was eating instead. He'd eaten a wide variety of exotic things in his life and he wasn't at all above trying new things, but medieval sanitation standards were not high. Or existent.

Thinking too much about it bothered him a lot, so he worked hard at _not_ thinking about it at all. Even so, there was sweat on his forehead from the effort of actively not picturing the number of _hands_ that had touched his food before him.

The bread was harder than Tony liked, full of bits of seeds and coarse flour. The stuff in his cup, the ale, was the only option for a beverage. When Tony asked if he could have some water, Mad John scorned him that water was only good for bathing and horses. Alric much more politely informed him that the water in this area was bad, causing sickness.

Tony guessed that was probably because they didn't yet know to boil the bacteria out of the water to make it safe and drinkable. He decided to keep it simple and stick to the ale, which tasted kinda bitter and kinda weak, like apples gone a little bad and made into lukewarm, vaguely alcoholic tea.

After they were through with the meal, Tony once again trailed after the knights as they left the hall. Darkness had fallen and a sea of brilliant white stars dotted the clear sky. A crisp breeze cut against his scratchy clothes as he walked.

Mad John led the way, grumbling in irritated undertones that the "pup" was about to be included in "matters of great import." They reached their destination (yet another ramshackle hut) and joined a handful of other knights seated around a table covered in maps. Introductions were made: Hugh, William, Charles, Edwin or Edward or something, more weird names, a dude called _Clerebold_ of all things, Ans-something-or-other...

No one else seemed to be terribly bothered by Tony's presence, aside from a few questioning glances, so John was forced to keep his obvious misgivings to himself. Tony fought not to smirk in the big man's direction, lest he get punched in the face with one of those meaty fists.

"We've been summoned back to Dunkeld," announced Alric. "To aid our liege lord in defending his lands against Highlanders encroaching from the west, in Inverness-shire." He unrolled a map and spread it across the table. He pointed out where Dunkeld was, situated roughly halfway between the southern-most border that butted up against England, and the Northern Ocean and Orkney Islands at the northernmost tip.

"And where are we?" Tony inquired.

Alric slid his finger over the parchment towards the south of Scotland, not too far from the English border. "Partway between Lochmaben and Eives."

Tony frowned. While he was no geography whiz, he thought the space between where they were and where they needed to go looked pretty large. It was difficult to determine, however, as the area depicted was pretty different from any modern map Tony had seen.

"Our journey would be shorter if we were able to trek straight north," one of the other men explained. "But we must detour to Dunfe to deliver a shipment of cloves and other precious spices from the far east." He tapped his finger on the area where Dunfe was located, which was about halfway between Dunkeld and Eives, but way to the east coast of Scotland.

"That looks far," Tony mumbled.

"Aye, it'll be a mighty slog," said Mad John, stroking his bushy beard thoughtfully. "What with all the wagons, women, animals, and so on. I wager it'll take us somewhere about two days 'till Dunfe, then another three to Dunkeld. That's _if_ we're hasty, which is not likely with so much cargo—live and otherwise."

Tony hung back as John, Alric, Dommal, and the others discussed the finer details of the journey. It sounded completely laborious in every respect and Tony was not looking forward to a moment of it. Least of all riding a horse for several days straight. The thought of it made him miss his suit—hell, almost anything would be better than a four-legged animal, in his opinion.

After the lengthy meeting (where Tony was completely bored and pretending not to be), the group departed. Dommal promised they'd find a comfortable place for Tony to sleep. He gestured for him to follow while Alric split off to talk further with some of the other knights.

Dommal brought Tony back to the hut that he shared with Alric. When Tony settled down on the pile of uncomfortable, lumpy, compressed hay that was apparently "the good bed", he could barely believe he'd made it through the day.

And that it'd only been one damn day.

* * *

 _ **A/n:** The metal dissolving solution that Tony required is an actual thing, called aqua regia, and it was invented/discovered by a Muslim alchemist, sometime before 815 AD. It's a combo of sulfuric acid, hydrochloric acid, and nitric acid, and apparently will dissolve gold, titanium, platinum, and more. Huh! Science!  
_

 _Also, apparently your average medieval forge can reach temperatures of 1500–2000 degrees C. All the materials you'd find in a smartphone have melting points easily within that range, so it's totally possible for Tony's stuff to be melted down in a medieval forge. The things you learn while writing…_


	6. Chapter 6

**[ NATASHA ]**

 _"That's just how time travel looks like to the untrained eye. The reason why there aren't more travelers is that your average physicist refuses to be eaten by a giraffe in the name of science." – Bradley Sands, It Came from Below the Belt_

* * *

When the Pocker came for her again, she was ready.

Natasha laid on her bed, back to the door. She waited and listened, running over pointless lists and random memorized facts in her head to keep herself awake and occupied. The names of the nine realms she'd learned from Thor. Bruce's recipe for butter chicken and naan. Movies the team collectively decided Steve _had_ to see. The endless ways to incapacitate someone with simple office supplies. Anything.

Finally, the door opened and in came the guard, barking at Natasha to get up. She held her breath and stayed in her crumpled, lifeless position, eyes open and unseeing.

"Hey!" the guard shouted, "Deaf, crag? I said get the hell up!"

He stormed over to jab her in the back. Natasha was prepared for him and didn't flinch, but it was a near thing.

" _Hey!_ " the Pocker yelled louder, close to her ear. He watched her for a few seconds then swore loudly.

He never had a chance to call for backup to help him dispose of the dead prisoner, because Natasha was on him. She leapt up, cracking the guard in the head with her own. Fighting off the sparks in her vision, she gripped the string of fabric she'd torn off of her pants leg and dove for the cursing guard. Natasha tackled him. The weapon he'd been reaching for at his hip went tumbling under the bed. She looped the fabric under his chin, planted her weight on his back, and pulled.

The guard flailed, trying to hit any part of her he could reach. Natasha held the pressure on his neck, grunting when his hits landed but she didn't budge. He gurgled and wiggled and fell still. Natasha eased the fabric away from the Pocker's neck but held her position for another few breaths. Certain he was unconscious, Natasha hopped off of his back and retrieved his weapon.

She turned it over experimentally—it _looked_ like a regular 9mm, but there was no safety and no magazine release. Natasha frowned and wrapped her fingers around the hilt. It was too light, the heft of it all wrong. She wondered if it was empty, or what else she wasn't seeing. She didn't have time to puzzle it out—any moment now, another Pocker might be coming to check on her or realize somebody was missing from their ranks.

Natasha poked her head out of her room, but there was no one in sight. She jogged with feather-light footsteps down the corridor, knowing with every step she didn't have a clue where she was going. Maybe if she could find a control room…take a Pocker hostage, get out of these weird binding cuffs, force the guard to lead her out...

Then, coming in the opposite direction Natasha was going, was Garrett and four white-clad guards. Garrett's face and arms were bruised and bloody, hands bound in front. Like the red-headed woman Natasha had seen, blood spattered his white uniform.

She met his surprised blue eyes.

The Pockers shouted at her and they threw Garrett to the ground. Two Pockers tore after Natasha. The others holding Garrett down shouted a garbled-sounding language into glowing panels on the top of their gloves. Alarms blared. Natasha aimed her gun and pulled the trigger but nothing happened as the Pockers bore down on her. The gun clicked ineffectively in her hand.

She flew into action. She threw the useless gun aside, flipping to disable the first guard that reached her. The next one tried to stop her, but a high-slicing kick to his neck had him on the floor wheezing. A second hit to the head, and he was as incapacitated as his friend. Red and yellow lights flared to life and flashed in the halls, accompanied by loud, clanging alarms.

The pair holding Garrett on the floor were frantic. One got up to charge Natasha and she dropped to avoid his weapon discharge, crashing into his knees and slamming him face first into the floor. Natasha rolled and swung her still-cuffed arms around. The binders cracked the Pocker in the mouth with an ugly crunch, sending a spray of blood and teeth across the floor. He fell back wailing and clutching his face. Natasha clocked him again to shut him up.

Garrett struggled against his last remaining sweaty captor, who hollered at the panel on his glove. Natasha dove at him, knocking him off Garrett. He was as easy to knock out as the other three had been—little to no fight training, she noted. Or at least, not very good fight training.

Pockers down, Natasha took off, ignoring a pang of guilt at the sound of Garrett's shouts for her to wait. Perhaps she should've slowed to help him somehow, but what could she do? What could _he_ do? He was a battered prisoner, still bound in the mysterious white cuffs same as her. He was only going to slow her down.

It was easy to push away the regret of leaving him behind when she couldn't hear him calling out anymore.

Wherever she was, the place was under attack. An explosion rocked the walls and sent her to her knees. She was up and running in an instant. The white glow of the halls surrounding her switched to an all red glow. Small white lights appeared at the edges of the wall where it met the floor. It wasn't exactly an arrow pointing to the exit, but it was close enough since some hallways were missing the little white lights.

Natasha smiled.

She encountered a set of armed guards when she rounded a corner. She dropped to the floor as they fired. Natasha rolled into their midst, popping up and using her heavy cuffs as a weapon. She swung her arms in a wide, jaw-splitting arc. They couldn't shoot at her in such close quarters, instead trying to bludgeon her with their sleek little guns.

Natasha was too fast for them. She wove between them, leapt up and scissored her legs around one guard's neck. She used her momentum to take him down and was on her feet before the others could compute what had happened. She shoved the rest into each other, tripping them up. She slammed them into the walls, smacking skulls and teeth indiscriminately with her elbows and knees.

There was another explosion as Natasha knocked out the last guard. The force of the blast was close enough to make the walls splinter and she almost fell off her feet. She heard shouting and gunfire and took off running again.

Natasha made it to another corridor before a group of people barrelled around the corner opposite her. She was about to attack again when she realized it was Garrett, uncuffed, leading about a dozen people with mismatched clothes and weapons, and three others dressed in white.

"You!" he shouted. He actually looked relieved. "Come on!"

Natasha hesitated.

"Come on, _run!_ " Garrett yelled. He gestured for her to follow as him and his crew tore off down the corridor ahead and to her left.

Natasha bit her lip, still not thrilled with the idea of trusting strangers, but ran after them anyway. If Garrett's buddies were the ones blowing stuff up around here, they were certainly preferable company to the people who wanted to "bleach" or execute her. Besides, the least she could do was use them to get out of the building before striking out on her own.

The band of fighters came upon a few sets of Pockers and shot their way past them. Natasha wondered how Garrett's people had gotten the strange guns to work as she hopped over the fallen white-clad bodies. The blood from the holes in the guards' chests looked pitch black under the red lights.

At a set of massive double doors, the group came under heavy fire. Natasha ducked for cover, cursing her lack of mobility due to the cuffs.

Another explosion shook the walls and debris flew by. A beefy man with dark skin shielded her and she glanced at him in surprise. His eyes caught on her cuffs. Though she couldn't hear what he was saying over the din, he pulled a squat black tube from his jacket and pressed it to the metal around her wrists. The binders sizzled, smoked, and vibrated so hard it made her teeth rattle, but they popped apart. She slid her hands out and kicked the dreaded thing away, rubbing at her skin.

The guy grinned and she yelled her thanks, though she wasn't sure he could hear her.

Then, they were off and running again. Most of the guards were down, the doors hung off smoking hinges, and she could see actual sunlight. They pounded towards it, emerging into an open, grassy area dotted with stone pillars. Gunfire peppered the pillar nearest them as smoke and fire filled the air to her right. She blindly followed Garrett's people through the incredible chaos.

The force of an explosion behind her threw Natasha to the ground. Heat roared past her and she was positive she was dead meat until a hand closed around hers and yanked her to her feet. Garrett's face was filthy and bloody and banged all to hell, but he still managed to shoot her a grin and yell something that sounded like _All right, Red?_

She tumbled after him up the ramp of a strange, metal craft. She copied him when he held on to the netting lining the walls. As it took off, turbulence and heavy gunfire buffeted the ship, and Natasha held on tighter with both hands, praying that the thing didn't fall out of the sky.

When the flight evened out and they'd left the sound of bullets and explosions behind, Natasha allowed herself to properly breathe. She cast a glance at the battered crew around her. Some of them were bleeding, most were streaked with grime. A few of them had their eyes closed, though she couldn't be sure if they were resting or unconscious.

Garrett, beside her, saw her looking and smiled. "Helluva a rescue, hey?"

Natasha swallowed and desperately hoped that, in getting on this ship, she'd done the right thing.

* * *

As the transport roared through the air, Natasha toyed with what persona to project to these people and how to interact with them. As they spoke sympathetically to her about her being "bleached," about her supposed loss of her memories, however, she realized she didn't have to pretend to be anyone, not really. She didn't know anything about this world, but no one expected her to.

They scanned everyone for trackers and bugs. Garrett went first, standing still with his arms spread apart as a short woman waved a thin black wand over every part of him twice. When the last person was checked and deemed safe, Garrett broke into another relieved grin.

The ship came in for a landing about half an hour later. Natasha hadn't seen much through the cramped windows while they'd been in the air—lots of desert, lots of scarred and blackened landscapes, and the occasional gleaming city too far in the distance to make out much detail. Wherever they were, it was in the shelter of red mountains.

The ship's ramp lowered with a loud hiss and Garrett was first to disembark. He was greeted by three people and a medical team, the latter of which hurried on board to tend to the wounded. Another group clad in black and faded green outfits hurried forward to do another check for bugs and trackers, this time with different devices—they looked like a few different things mashed oddly together made a squat box with lights and cords.

When she was cleared too, Natasha followed Garrett's crew members out, unsure what she was supposed to do or where she ought to go. Her feet hit red dirt, and she glanced around, absorbing the scene before she took another step.

The ship had docked under some sort of massive manmade hanger, wedged into russet rock. The space was huge and oblong, maybe about the size of a football field. There were a few other large ships like the one she'd arrived in—built a little like a cargo plane without wings. Most were in pieces, riddled with bullet holes, or covered in scorch marks. There were smaller vehicles too, similar to ATVs, scattered around and in various states of disrepair.

A few dozen people milled around the area. Some came over to greet Garrett and his people—all, she noticed, had tattooed circlets on their wrists: blue, black, and white.

Deeper into the hanger were multiple sets of doors. The largest ones in the middle were propped wide open, allowing a steady flow of foot traffic in and out. Before she caught much more than a glimpse of them, Garrett waved her over to him and dismissed the people he'd been talking to.

"Still all right, Red?" he asked.

Natasha shrugged.

Garrett smiled. "Yeah. Let's get you something to chow and bring you up to speed. Keen?"

"Sure," she replied. She followed him and two of his crew members towards the large open doors and out of the hanger.

Garrett led them down a series of hallways. Everything was dingy and ramshackle in the way that spoke of it being well-used and "homemade," but not unsanitary. It was a far cry from the extremely white, pristine prison she'd toured through and somehow immensely more comforting. Natasha wasn't about to let her guard down, but she let her shoulders relax. She'd always been one to trust her instincts, and right now, they were telling her that this place was safe, at least for the moment.

The people in the base shared a sort of shabby look that spoke to hard but determined living. As she passed them in the halls, she noticed they bore scars, and most of them wore ragged clothes, but few appeared to be unhappy. In fact, most of them greeted Garrett with smiles, shouts, and salutes. It was clear to Natasha by the time she, Garrett, and his friends reached the eating area that he was a leader here and well-liked.

"Have a seat, Red, and I'll get you somethin'." He gestured to the mismatched benches and chairs crowded around banged up tables and flashed her another smile.

Natasha chose a chair that gave her a view of the room and the entryway, placing her back against the wall. The other two went with Garrett to retrieve food from the makeshift-looking kitchen, erected along the far wall. A dozen or so people sat scattered around the other tables. Natasha wondered how big this complex was and how many people were occupying it. Were they all the "treacherous rebels" that Garrett's father had mentioned?

Garrett and his two friends returned minutes later with a few steaming bowls. They settled around the table with her. The tanned man on her right, with a black tattoo on his wrist, aggressively dug into his bowl of stew. The dark-skinned woman across from her eyed Natasha and ate her food with more care.

"Sorry, rations are thin this week," said Garrett, sliding Natasha a spoon. "So's the stew."

It didn't look or smell like much, nor was it overly tasty. There were bits of vegetables, small chunks of different-colored meat, and Natasha was fairly certain even Clint could've produced a better meal. Still, after a good day or two without anything in her belly, it was welcome and filling. Even if it did need some salt, spice, and more items to fill out the broth.

"You really are bleached?" asked the woman, Ophie. She was about the same age as Natasha, and watched her carefully like she wanted to trust her but couldn't just yet. Natasha knew the feeling.

Natasha nodded and set her spoon aside. Her stomach gave a quiet rumble—thankful for substance, but there hadn't been nearly enough.

Since she truly _didn't_ know anything about this world, it was easy to pretend she'd had her memory wiped. Garrett and his crew were perfectly happy to answer any question she had, no matter how inane it was—like asking the year (2176, apparently). It was an excellent, if less than ideal, way to gather intel as they sat around the table, digesting their stew.

"Look, it's simple," said the tanned guy with the black band on his wrist, Jeksen. "You got your Coals, Scuds, Supers, and Empties. Coals are the cragging elite, Scuds are the scum and undesirables, Supers got the powers, and the Empties are nobodies—the everything else, the in-between. Keen?"

Natasha raised her eyebrow at Garrett. "And in English…?"

Garrett laughed, a warm, rolling sound. "Yeah, it can be kinda sideways to latch. You're not the first bleached mate we've found or rescued. You might be the first unclassified one I've ever peeped, though."

Ophie nodded vigorously. "Ain't impossible, just cragging hard to do. You ever get peeped by a Pocker out there, they'll haul you in and terminate 'cha."

"Okay, that's about the fifth time I've heard that," said Natasha. "What does that mean—'unclassified'?"

Garrett pointed to her unblemished wrist. "No identifier." He lifted his arm to show her his white circlet. "Former Coal, me. She's former Empty, and Jeks's former Scud. You come of age, you get slapped with one of these."

"People have tried to get away from it—to hide," said Ophie, her tone growing hard. "But damn Pockers always find you. You can only hide so long, even out here." She held out her arm and turned it so Natasha could see the inside of her tattooed wrist. A jagged, ugly scar marred her dark skin. "Tracking chips come with the ink. Damn hard to remove, what with bein' tied to your nervous system and all."

Natasha chewed the inside of her lip then asked, "And so the colors signify what group you're in? But how do they know?"

"Supposedly they got some secret test or algorithm or some bullshit," explained Garrett. "Best and brightest, prettiest and richest are always Coals—you know, for the Coalition. They're the cragging whackers up in the shiny cities. Scuds are the opposite—criminals, degenerates, crazies, horror shows, idiots and all."

"Shoved out and quarantined in the worst areas in the country, separated from the pretty little public by stretches of Dead Zone—you know, the inhabitable bits?" Jeks chimed in. "'Course, plenty don't actually _deserve_ to be there, but you think the Coals care 'bout that?"

"Scud Territories are absolute hellholes," added Ophie. "Made to be. You take all the worst of the worst and shove them in a small, craggy area…" She snapped her fingers and made an explosion noise.

Natasha's gut turned over. What the hell had happened in this world? How had the Coalition formed? How had they come to this point? How had the rest of the world _let_ them?

"Empties fit into neither," continued Garrett. "The average, the middles, the people who're not extraordinary _or_ undesirable. There's plenty of 'em, but they're beaten down by the Coals to stay in line or risk getting rebranded a Scud." Darkness clouded his expression and she didn't want to imagine the horrors he was recalling.

Natasha swallowed against the dryness in her throat. "And you mentioned… Supers?"

"Right. They wear red. They're the people who have superpowers—literally. I know, creative, right?" Garrett sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. "The Coals actively hunt Supers. Anybody who displays a power is captured and terminated. We've heard of some Supers who're, uh… _rehabilitated_ and _re-purposed_ , but we're pretty sure that means bleached and genetically stripped until there's nothing left but a cragging shell."

Ophie dropped her eyes to her empty bowl and Jeks let out a long, heavy breath. Waves of shock and horror rolled over Natasha.

"How did this happen?" she managed. "How could…any of this…happen?"

Garrett's smile was empty and exhausted. "That's a real long story, Red. And we've got things to do." As he pushed his chair back to stand, Ophie and Jeks did the same. "C'mon. I have it on keen authority you had a choice little chat with my dear ol' dad. And you got yourself out of the hands of a Pocker, in a cell, by your lonesome."

Natasha shrugged.

He grinned. "We're gonna need every detail."


	7. Chapter 7

**[ TONY ]**

 _"Even amongst the vast and beautiful landscape I felt trapped as if I were back in the stone walls of Castle Leoch. Would I have to reconcile myself to live the rest of my life amongst strangers two hundred years in the past?" –Claire, Outlander_

* * *

As suspected, Tony did not have a great deal of fun traveling the old-fashioned way.

Mere hours in, he was sore from riding the horse. He couldn't relax while atop it—the thing was, like, a thousand pounds of live animal that could just bolt and kill him at any second, and he'd never liked the damn things, and _God, this was such a nightmare_.

The company's progress was incredibly slow. A couple hundred people trekking across meadows, through forests and rivers, were slow on their own. Never mind that those people were toting dismantled huts and shelters, and dozens and dozens of animals (goats, pigs, chickens, and more). Then, all the supplies required to feed those animals and people for the solid week-plus that they needed to get where they were going.

Luckily, at least, Tony didn't have to drag his suit around, as he and Alric had shoved it into the swamp first thing in the morning. It hadn't been easy but with their combined strength, they got it in. The armour was quickly swallowed by the mud and mire and Tony brushed his hands together, satisfied if feeling the loss. The suit was sure to sink down _deep,_ and the chances of it being found were basically nil. He'd joined the knight in preparations for the company's journey after that.

Alric, Dommal, and a group of knights and soldiers led the way, and Tony stayed up the front with them. Periodically, a few of the knights would ride back down the wide, meandering throng to check in and make sure things were going okay, all the way to where the rest of the knights were on rear guard. Then they would return to the front and report anything important or call for the travelers to take a break.

Tony hated the first night they slept out under the stars—he was cold, the ground was too hard under the ridiculously thin rolled hay "cot" Dommal had procured for him, and he couldn't shake the feeling that if he closed his eyes, he wouldn't wake up again. It was completely irrational, but it was dark and it was the 1100s and Tony didn't want to take his chances. He fought off another panic attack over his messed up situation, determined not to completely freak out again (justified or not). After a fitful, thoroughly unrestful sleep, Tony woke to find his scratchy clothes damp with morning dew.

 _Great_ , he thought irritably, standing up and wincing at the sharp kink in his back and neck. He shouldn't have cursed the dew, however; a few short hours after dawn, it started pouring rain. He tried to put on the leathery poncho-like cloak Alric had given him, but Dommal caught sight and laughed.

"Sir Tony, 'tis merely a bit of rain!" He grinned and turned his round face towards the sky. Big fat droplets splashed down the younger boy's cheeks.

Tony scowled and pulled the cloak on anyways. "Yeah, well, I don't like being wet."

Dommal laughed harder at this, his green eyes glittering with mirth. "Then you should not have come to Scotland!"

The rain let up by late afternoon, so Tony supposed it could have been worse. The company stopped for yet another break. They ate coarse bread, cheese, cold meat leftovers (well, the others did—Tony wasn't hungry enough to eat meat from a sack that'd been sitting in the sun and rain for two days), and washed it down with ale. Tony's head was pounding from lack of caffeine, so he tried to drink a little extra ale in hopes of countering it with a bit of a buzz. The ale was too weak and didn't help at all.

Later, Dommal took Tony to a small forested area off to the side of where the company had settled. He brought along a set of wooden practice swords and went over the basics of swordplay. They circled each other beneath the dappled sunlight, trampling sprigs of white wildflowers.

Tony found he wasn't completely hopeless with a sword, but he also wasn't very good. He hadn't done any fencing since a handful of lessons with Jarvis when he was young. Still, he was a fast learner, and could more or less parry simple blows after a good hour. It was a hell of a workout regardless, and Tony was sweating up a storm while Dommal hardly perspired at all. Practicing also would've been easier, Tony decided, if his thighs weren't already killing him from riding.

"Clearly you have not ridden in a very long while, my friend," said Dommal. He observed the way Tony limped around the grass, painfully and bow-legged. "Did they not have horses in Winterfell either?" he teased.

"Sure they do, I just don't ride them," Tony smirked and lunged at the young knight, who dodged and parried the strike without effort.

"We will have to remedy that as well." Dommal swung his wooden sword in a wide arc.

Tony stumbled out of the way. He clumsily blocked a slowed down hit from the younger knight.

"You know," Tony panted. "You don't...have to go...so easy on me. I can take it."

Dommal shook his head. "I mean this kindly, Sir Tony, but you've no more skill than our stable boy who's never held a sword in all his life."

 _Well, that's 'cause I've never held a sword in all my life,_ Tony thought ruefully. He assumed foam ones didn't count.

"I should…probably be offended…by that, but...it's kinda true...isn't it?" Tony slumped to the green ground, completely spent. The trees surrounding him and Dommal blocked direct beams from the late afternoon sun, but it was still muggy and hot; the humidity from the rain earlier hadn't dissipated.

Dommal laughed merrily and settled down beside him. "Fear not—you will simply have to relearn what your mind has forgotten. Your body may remember faster than you think."

Tony sighed. "Tell me the horse thing gets better too?" He gestured to his legs. "That it stops hurting?"

The knight bowed his curly-haired head, amused but not mocking. "Yes, indeed, Sir Tony. Your body will grow used to the horse and its movements. Though you would do well not to ride so… _stiffly_." This time he _was_ mocking. He clenched his teeth together, tensed his arms to his ribs, and his shoulders to his ears, then mimed swaying back and forth with jerky motions.

"I don't ride the horse like that," Tony protested, but Dommal continued, his eyes bulging. "I do _not_ ride like that!"

Alric came striding through the trees and across the clearing towards them, a small smile on his lips.

Tony gestured to Dommal. " _Do_ I ride like that? I don't ride like that."

"I believe that is why your limbs troubled you so this morning," Alric said matter-of-factly.

Tony huffed while Dommal laughed again, giving Tony a jovial slap on the shoulder.

"The horse I selected for you is a fair one, Sir Tony," Alric assured him. "She listens well, runs sure and swift, and you need not fear her."

Tony frowned, unconvinced. His friend's words were hardly comforting. He doubted they'd get any more understanding if he tried to explain that the beasts had _always_ made him nervous. He'd had a total of one riding lesson in his life and it had ended in tears—he'd been like six or seven at the time, granted, but he had never gone back.

"It is time we pressed on," Alric informed them, gesturing back at the company.

Dommal was on his feet first and helped Tony to his. He clapped him on the back again and thanked him for a fun bout of sword practice. Tony in turn thanked him for his tutoring and mentally prepared himself to get back on that damn horse. Dommal headed away, but Alric stopped Tony from following.

"A word, if you wouldn't mind, Sir Tony?" asked the knight.

Tony nodded, suddenly apprehensive. "Sure, what's up?"

Alric's brow wrinkled and he looked uncomfortable and unsure. "I do not wish to… question your character. But I must ask—I must know. Sir Tony, where are you from, truly?"

He watched Tony with those sharp gray-blue eyes of his, while Tony silently fumbled for something to say.

"No one has heard of Winterfell," Alric continued. "And while it is not unusual for many to have not heard tell of far-off lands, it is extraordinarily strange that _no one_ has heard the slightest word pertaining to your land—including Anselm, who has travelled farther than most of us can imagine. The world is a very large place, I grant you, but…"

The knight trailed off. He was normally so sure and precise when he spoke, but now he was uncertain.

Tony clenched his jaw and his pulse raced. _Now what?_ he thought. _Yes, you're right, I made it up—it's from a TV show. I'm from the future, sent back here by a crazy guy with an even crazier bomb. And I've battled aliens and fire soldiers in my flying suit! Now, shall I get the wood for the stake-burning, or will you?_

At least Alric was uncomfortable enough with this conversation that he fell silent, leaving Tony a few breaths to figure out a way to answer without ending up dead. They killed crazy people outright in those— _these_ days for crap like this, didn't they?

"I believe that you are unfamiliar with knightly activities, but I am no longer certain it is because of a great injury—you are too sure of yourself otherwise," said Alric. "Are you a knight at all? Are you…are you a nobleman in disguise? Scholar? A fugitive? Did you truly lose companions in a terrible event? I mostly wish to know…why you feel required to perpetuate falsehoods?"

 _Would being a fake noble dude on the run from a fake conspiracy get me out of this?_ Tony wondered, his heartbeat pulsing in his temples. He dug his nails into his palm.

After a long pause where Alric watched and waited, Tony realized he had to speak. He swallowed hard.

"Alric, if I explained it all to you, you would think I was—that my mind was broken...and you'd probably want to chop my head off or something."

"Why would—"

"Trust me on this. I promise you that I mean no harm to you or anyone here. I am just a guy, very, _very_ far away from home," said Tony carefully, but earnestly. "I _did_ lose my close friends—my companions. But they're not here—searching for them won't do me any good. For all intents and purposes, they're gone." He took a breath. "And no, I'm… I'm not a knight."

Tony waited for Alric to be angry or shocked, but the knight reached for Tony's arm. He flinched in alarm.

"I mean you no harm either, Sir Tony," Alric assured him. He grasped Tony's elbow, lifting, and pushed Tony's sleeve out of the way. He gently laid his hand on Tony's bare forearm.

 _What the hell?_ Tony's eyes darted from his arm to Alric's eyes, which watched Tony without blinking.

"Repeat yourself, Sir Tony," he instructed.

Tony stared. "I…what?"

Alric's face was as expressionless as a slab of stone. "Are you a knight?"

"...no?" The hand on his arm was warmer than it should've been—almost too hot.

"Are you from a faraway land?"

"Well, technically, yeah, but it's less about _where_ and more…seriously, what are you doing?"

The knight tilted his head to the side with a slight smile and released Tony's arm.

"You speak truth," he remarked. Tony couldn't tell if he was surprised or not.

"Yeah—what did you just do to me?" He rubbed at the spot where Alric had held him. It still was too hot and sorta prickly, like pins and needles.

"Since you are not a knight, then why introduce yourself as such?"

Was the guy dodging him on purpose? What the crap was that arm thing all about?

 _Because I thought you were nerds in costume, not honest-to-God knights,_ Tony didn't say. Instead he went with, "Because I was worried you would…" What had Dommal said when Tony had first met them in the forest? "I was scared you'd think I was a Scottish _pig_. Or spy. Or something. But I'm not."

"You know that impersonating a knight is a treasonous act," Alric stated and Tony's heart rate climbed again.

 _Oh God,_ he thought. _Here it comes—execution for introducing myself as 'Sir'._

The knight surprised him again, however, and that small, amused smile was pulling at his lips. "Fortunately, I've grown fond of you, Sir Tony, and would rather not see you hanged for… shall we say, a moment of weakness?"

Tony thought he was taking this pretty well but was too thankful to dwell on it. "Thanks," he exhaled.

Alric's features washed with genuine empathy for a moment. "I understand what it is to be fresh from battle, alone, and faced with strangers. I do not blame you for your lies, Sir Tony. Nor do I blame you for continuing it; once we accepted you, how could you reject your own proclamations?"

"Pretty much, yeah," said Tony with a shrug.

"Would you not tell me the truth, instead?" the knight pressed gently. "The full breadth. Your history, and where you truly hail from?"

Tony wanted to, he really did. But he didn't want to see the friendship and acceptance on Alric's face turn to fear and scorn and confusion. He didn't want to be strung up for being a heretic or a demon or whatever they'd call him if started spouting off about time travel and motorized cars and a team of superheroes who saved the world once a week (give or take). He had to survive here as long as possible—until Bruce could get him out and back home, however long that would be.

So he dodged the other's man gaze and mumbled, "I can't."

Alric studied Tony. "Perhaps another time?"

 _Yeah, totally,_ Tony thought sarcastically. He was still weirded out by whatever-the-hell the arm thing was, but he sensed a way out of this conversation, so he took it. Aloud, he agreed, "Yeah, another time."

Alric nodded. On the edge of the forest, Hugh was shouting for them; it was time to leave. Alric shot Tony another smile.

"I shall not reveal your secret, Sir Tony," he promised, meaning it.

Tony thanked him, more relieved than he could possibly describe, and trailed after the knight as they left the clearing.

Tony did his best to ride in a more relaxed manner when the journey resumed, and to not clutch the reins with the white-knuckled grip that had made his hands ache. He attempted to flow with the horse, like Alric instructed, as the animal calmly plodded after the other knights' horses.

By nightfall, he decided he'd made progress. He still hurt like hell, he had all kinds of wonderful chafing on his inner thighs, and the kink in his neck from sleeping on the ground still wouldn't go away—but he _did_ feel a little more relaxed on the horse. He supposed enough uneventful hours of tedious riding would do that eventually.

He didn't sleep much better the second night—he swore he heard wolves howling in the distance and then he had nightmares about a gnarly pack of them attacking him—or the third night, which followed another thoroughly uneventful day, and more caffeine-withdrawal headaches.

Not that Tony was complaining, exactly. It was just that he was freaking _bored_. Somehow, he'd thought being in the company of honest-to-God knights would be a lot more exciting than escorting a couple hundred townspeople and their stuff. At least he'd gotten his on-the-verge-of-another-panic-attack feeling under control. Maybe enough uneventful hours of tedious riding had done that, too.

He hadn't had any contact from Bruce since that first day and he found himself surreptitiously watching the stream's surface when they stopped to wash things or refill casks. Was the connection only water-related or was it any reflective surface? Tony wondered if one day he'd be sipping ale from a tankard and see Bruce in his cup.

Then he wondered, with an uncomfortable twinge, if it was _that specific_ lake and Tony would have to get back there if he ever wanted to talk to his friend again. He forced the thought away—if Bruce had news, he would find a way. He already had once.

By the fifth day of the journey, Tony took to riding with the knights who went down the line to check on the company's progress, just for something to do. On one ride-by, Renfred the blacksmith called to him to say that the aqua regia from Godwin had done its work and that there was nothing left of Tony's things.

Tony smiled. _Score one for chemistry._

Riding with Charles, William, and Dommal up and down the winding mass of people broke up the ride and gave him something else to focus on. Soon, Tony chose to ride with whichever group of knights went to check on the column, several times a day.

This only served to reinforce how real it all was—and at times, how deadly real.

There was the wagon that blew one of its wooden wheels and needed repairs, and the wagon that tipped into one of the deeper, rushing rivers they crossed. They lost several bags of grain, one donkey, and nearly two men—the one driving the wagon and the one rescuing him.

Then there was the young woman with her screaming baby; Alric said the babe had a fever and likely to die before they reached Dunfe. Tony's insides twisted with helplessness. What he wouldn't give for some real medicine right about now.

There was the chicken that Dommal casually asked him to kill to eat for food the next night. When Tony sputtered out an uneasy, mumbled excuse, Mad John angrily snatched the squawking bird from Dommal's hands and snapped its neck right in front of them.

Tony _very_ reluctantly helped Dommal de-feather it by a stream afterwards. Yes, okay, he knew where the nice boneless, skinless chicken breasts in his freezer came from, he wasn't an idiot, but grabbing a Styrofoam package from his freezer that Pepper had someone buy for him and cracking open a warm, bloody, dead bird with _his own shaking hands in freaking medieval Scotland_ were two massively different things. After that little incident, Dommal probably thought Tony was as weak as John did, but Tony didn't care.

Another day, there was the little boy with the infected eye (Godwin kept applying foul-smelling salves and bandages, while one of the women muttered that the boy was cursed) and the little blind girl who was far too skinny and rode an equally starved-looking goat (Tony sought her out and gave her his portion of rabbit a few hours later when he couldn't stop thinking about her empty eyes and hollow cheeks).

There was the woman who died of sickness—no one seemed to know specifically what—and the man who needed a pair of sticks to walk after he tumbled off his horse and twisted his ankle and, and, and…

Tony rubbed his hands over his eyes. It was a lot. It was a lot to see and experience in a week, and most of it just made him incredibly thankful he was not born in this century. Or that he'd been born like ten centuries _after_ this one, because the ones in between probably didn't suck much less than this one, if his shaky memories of history class were anything to go by.

Tony sighed and let his head tilt back against the tree he was leaning against. It was still dark out, and chilly, though the cold didn't bother him as much. A thick blanket of fog hung across the land, muffling the soft noises of the nature surrounding him. It was strange—the fog was thick and he knew how disorienting that could be, having flown through it in the suit on occasion. But it was also strangely comforting, oddly peaceful.

Though he didn't feel sleepy (he was getting better at sleeping on the ground, but it was still uncomfortable), he closed his eyes for a moment or two, simply to listen to the quiet enveloping him.

He opened his eyes again and stared out at the land, obscured and opaque with fog. Dim shapes were suggested here and there in the distance, where earlier the sun had shone down on rocky ridges, winding rivers, rolling green hills, and expansive forests. A faint, vague glow low in the misty sky indicated where the moon was setting.

Dawn was coming soon.

When the first hues of blue began to lighten the world around Tony, Dommal made his way up the hill from the camp to his friend lounging against the tree.

"Good morning," he greeted. "I trust you slept well?"

Tony shook his head. "The usual." His smile was small and tired. He scratched at his face; his beard was growing out and itched something fierce.

"You'll grow used to it soon enough," Dommal assured him, as he always did.

Tony highly doubted that—he didn't particularly _want_ to grow used to it. He wanted to get the hell home to his real bed and coffee and a razor—but he didn't say that. He shoved away any feelings of homesickness before they took root. He was finally doing okay here and wanted to _keep_ doing okay.

Dommal settled down in the grass beside Tony. They sat in companionable silence, watching the sun slowly emerge from behind distant mountains. The fog dissipated a little at a time as the sun burned it away, like a painter unveiling a masterpiece with his brush. The forests and hills, the ridges and rivers took concrete form once again.

Tony had never been particularly outdoorsy. He could certainly appreciate nature on occasion if he had to, but given the choice, he'd rather spend the weekend in his shop tinkering (God, he missed fiddling with something, anything, mechanical) or maybe at a party, rather than in the bush—something he and Clint disagreed on.

The archer was a big fan of nature, of trees and wilderness, camping and hiking, the whole nine yards. Barton liked to say that "enjoying nature" was more than a silly camping trip in the woods at the edge of a city, that it was "something real special". Tony had always scoffed. Watching the fog melt, Tony finally understood what his friend meant by that.

 _Damn_ , he thought. _This really is gorgeous._

The sight even made Tony a little breathless. It was pure, untouched. He watched the sun peek over the horizon, sending brilliant gold rays fanning over the untouched landscape. The moment in a movie where some schmuck got teary-eyed over a sunrise had always seemed cheesy and false to Tony, but now he kinda got it.

It wasn't like this was his first sunrise or anything—he'd seen plenty and from some pretty spectacular vantage points courtesy of his money and his suits. Most of those sunrises, admittedly, he'd seen because he forgot to go to bed and had worked through the night (or, back in the day, partied until it was morning). They'd been nice, sure.

But he hadn't seen any like this.

"Clint should be here," Tony mumbled aloud. _He would really appreciate this view_.

"Is he one of your lost comrades?" Dommal asked softly.

Tony nodded and a pang of loss hit his chest. He wondered if would ever see any of them again. The day of the bomb already felt like a lifetime ago.

He buried thoughts of Pepper the moment her face appeared in his mind—there was no point in getting homesick. But, _God_ , he missed her so much. He still felt like he couldn't properly function without her. The only way he was making it through this was by very, very stubbornly not thinking about her at all. Or Rhodey, or Happy, or his team. He would just keep riding that damn horse and hope Bruce would get him out of here somehow, sooner rather than later.

Tony swallowed and blinked away the moisture trying to gather in his eyes.

* * *

Not long after dawn, it was time for breakfast. Tony nibbled on bread, cheese, and salted mystery meat (Dommal claimed it was hedgehog, but Tony chose to pretend otherwise). He washed it down with some ale. He still wasn't a big fan of the stuff, but it still seemed to be the only thing they ever drank—the casks they filled with water were for the animals' benefit only. He missed coffee, soda, and good clean water.

And _, shit,_ did he ever miss coffee. He'd literally take anything right now. He didn't care what kind—the fancy stuff JARVIS made him, the crap Steve liked, the sugary stuff from the coffee shop beside the Tower…anything.

Before the sun was much higher in the sky, the company was off again, bound at last for the village of Dunfe. They plodded over yet more hills and streams, through forests and meadows, finally coming upon the town by about midday.

Once they delivered the spices to the local merchants and apothecaries, it was time to continue on to Dunkeld. Much of the massive company Tony had so far travelled with dispersed to corners of the town and to the nearby country. Many people with their weighed-down wagons moved on to farms and fifes to the west and east. Some returned to their homes, while others took shelter at inns. The majority of the soldiers and knights, including Dommal, Alric, Mad John, William, and Clerebold, continued north and west. Tony, with nowhere else to go, followed.

As they left Dunfe behind, Tony realized he'd had the option to stay there if he wanted. It wasn't like he was bound to these guys, nor bound to their quest of helping out their lord or whatever. But what would he do if he did stay?

He really had no place to be (Alric, for one, knew he had no "lost companions" to search for, though they both continued the lie to Dommal or anyone who asked). He had no plan, no particular direction, and he was still waiting for more contact from Bruce. Though the longer he went without hearing from the scientist, the less hopeful he was that he was ever going to speak to him again or get back to when he belonged.

In the end, he figured he was better off continuing to ride with the knights bound for Dunkeld. Honestly, it wasn't like he had anything better to do.

* * *

 _ **A/n:** Fun fact: when I very, very initially began working on this fic, I wrote a few openings for the characters figuring out where they were, and then the scene with Tony watching dawn arrive and feeling homesick. It remains largely unchanged since I first wrote it so long ago and that brings me weird joy. XD_


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/n:** Okay, heaven help me, I am throwing around Australian slang, Scottish slang, and made up slang. You're probably like "no, why" (I know, I'm sorry, but there's reasons). The made-up ones should hopefully be clear from context, while the actual real slang are probably harder to decipher. There will be a glossary at the end of this chapter, so stick with me. ;)_

* * *

 **[ NATASHA ]**

 _"Whatever our lives might have been, if the time continuum was disrupted, our destinies have changed." –Spock, Star Trek (2009)_

* * *

Natasha recounted her experience in the Coal compound to a group of rebels, gathered around a dented metal table in a large meeting room. She explained her interrogation (leaving out any details about Bruce). Then, her attack on the Pocker she'd disabled, her run-in with the red-headed woman in the hall, and finally her escape and rescue at the hands of Garrett's team.

"Jessa," Garrett nodded grimly. "Yeah, she was one of ours. She was a Super—could manipulate electricity. Damn handy when it came to infiltrating Coal hives."

Garrett, Natasha learned, was the head of a core group of rebels intent on bringing down the Coalition. The rebel group, simply calling themselves by the Coalition-appointed nickname "the Rebels" ("Apparently 'Cragging Shits Here to Fuck Up Your So-Called Government' wasn't to their liking," Garrett said with a wink), had been working to overthrow the system for almost a decade.

"Started real slow back then," explained one of Garrett's lieutenants, a sharp Korean woman named Yumi. "Little pockets here and there. People were too afraid to move after the last Great War. It wasn't until maybe five years ago that things really got some traction—people found each other, pulled together."

"Found a helluva leader for our faction," said Jeks, giving Garrett a slap on the back.

Garrett laughed. Despite that, Natasha could see a spike of grief flash across his features. _For the loss of his old life or the loss of someone in particular?_ she wondered.

"Been turning things sideways ever since." He smiled.

"Too right, that," Jeks agreed proudly, his teeth bright against his rough, tan features.

When Natasha wanted to know why they trusted her with any information, it was the muscular man who'd helped her back at the compound, Veer, who spoke up first.

"Because some of us have been there," he said. His voice was like a deep bellow, but filled with unexpected warmth. "Ain't leaving anybody to the Coals, least of all somebody that's been bleached. Bein' unclassified means you got rebels somewhere, even if you don't know it."

Natasha bit back a smirk at that, thinking of Clint and Tony and the others. Oh yeah, she had some rebels somewhere, all right.

"Plus, Garrett says we can trust you," Jeks added. "And Garrett has yet to steer this beamer wrong."

She didn't want to argue with them, it just seemed like they were so… _accepting_. She couldn't help thinking that had their roles been reversed, her first thought would have been to assume this was a trap set up by the Coals. Unknown, unclassified, mind-wiped person conveniently found wandering the desert by a band of rebels, then rescued by them a day later?

"Hey, some of us have our straight doubts," Yumi piped up, levelling her gaze at Natasha. "And don't think you're gonna have free rein or nothing." She flicked her long dark braid over her shoulder. "But yeah, we're gonna help you figure stuff out. Least we can do for a bleach-head."

For some reason, Yumi's coolness and distrust soothed Natasha's unease. She gave Yumi a nod and decided she liked Garrett's second-in-command, even if the feeling was not mutual.

After that, Veer and Jeks gave her a short tour. They led her away from the meeting rooms back to the eating area, amusingly named the Cantina (she barely stopped herself from making a _Star Wars_ joke, remembering she was supposed to be mind-wiped). There was a cramped rec area filled with retooled gym equipment, pool tables, tables and chairs. It was around this time that Natasha realized the utter lack of electronics in the place. Anything she had seen was old, like old for _her_ time's standards, let alone a hundred years in the future.

"That's 'cause of the Tech War," answered Veer when she asked about it. "All that electronic warfare kinda soured people on gadgets. Well, and the Coalition controlling _every_ craggin' thing. Anything with a signal can be jacked. Has been. This last place? Only lasted this long because of the ban. Everybody knows it and won't come in with a drop o' tech."

"It's back to the days of yore here, I'm afraid," put in Jeks. "And hell, I mean _yore._ Operations has some stuff, but it's pretty low tech, old-school, or layered up with a dozen jammers and shielders. Really whatever we can scavenge and build ourselves."

Once again, Natasha couldn't help thinking about Tony. She allowed herself to picture him and almost laughed out loud at the idea of his pinched, horrified expression.

They moved on to the barracks: windowless room after room filled with six beds a piece and an assortment of personal items. Like everything else about the base, the areas looked scavenged and rough around the edges. There were faded photographs, frayed knapsacks, beat-up musical instruments, and rag-tag groups of people of all ages and races.

"Anyone can defect," Veer told her as she watched a trio of children playing with some toys in the hall. "It's not the best place and rations are usually pretty thin—we only have what the Scav crews can steal or scrounge. But sometimes it's a helluva lot safer than life out there."

Natasha noted that almost everyone was three of the four classes of citizen. She saw mostly blue bands for Empties and black bands for Scuds, some white-tattooed former Coals, but only a couple red Supers. They darted out of sight, probably terrified of a new face until they knew it was safe. She wondered if the lack of Supers was because the Coals hunted them so fiercely that there were hardly any left or because the remaining Supers out there were too scared to come out of hiding, even join the rebellion.

Jeks and Veer stopped in front of a room that looked like it only had one occupied bed.

"We'll put you up in here with Edie for now." Veer jabbed his thumb through the open doorway. "She's a probie, too."

Natasha shot him a questioning look.

"Probation. Newbies gotta spend a while under supervision so we know you're not spies or trouble or anything," Jeks explained. "Ain't the best solution, but it's better than nothin'."

"No, I understand," said Natasha.

"Me 'n' Ophie's room is here," said Veer, pointing to the room across the hall from Natasha and Edie's. "Fair warning, Edie's a little sideways, but right _grouse_ once you get to know her a bit. She always scoops from the book hauls the Scavs bring in, so if you're wantin' any more history lessons, ask her to borrow some. Need somethin' else, find somebody and ask, and if they don't know, they'll point you."

"Got it."

Veer gave her a salute and went into his room.

"Be choice, Red," said Jeks, grinning. He waved and headed on his way.

Natasha glanced at the beds in Edie's room. Most of them were plain mattresses with no bedding, aside from Edie's—covered in an orange and brown patchwork quilt—and the one closest to the door, which had a set of blue sheets and a old gray comforter piled haphazardly at the foot. Natasha frowned at them but a quick look and sniff told her that they were freshly laundered, so she made her bed. Her new roommate showed up just as Natasha was smoothing out the corners.

Edie's long brown hair hung in straight lines at either side of her face as she bustled into the room, head down.

"Hey," greeted Natasha. "I'm…" She paused and instead decided to go with the nickname Garrett and the others seemed to have chosen for her. _Why not_ , she thought. _It's not like I'd know my own name if I'd really been bleached anyways_. "Red. I'm new."

"Obviously," Edie replied, her voice quiet but not unkind. More like she was agreeing with a fact instead of being sarcastic.

Natasha fussed with her bedsheets and took the girl in out of the corner of her eye. Edie's shoulders hunched when she moved like she wanted to make herself smaller and she was using her long hair like a shield so she didn't have to make eye contact. She couldn't have been much older than eighteen or so, if that. She settled cross-legged onto her bed and slipped a book out from under her pillow to read. Her long sleeves covered her wrists so Natasha couldn't see what class she'd previously been.

 _Shy bookworm_ , Natasha assessed and smiled a little. _Is this what Veer meant by 'sideways'?_

"You're Edie, right?" Natasha tried, staying on her side of the room, not looking up and keeping her voice light but neutral.

"Mm-hmm," was the soft reply.

"I don't mean to bother you, it's just that I was—well, I was bleached. And Veer said you had some books." Natasha put what she hoped was the right amount of optimistic hesitancy in her voice to catch Edie's curiosity. The girl's muscles stiffened and for a moment Natasha worried that the poor girl was shy enough that Natasha had already pushed too far. Instead, she lowered her book and peeked past her long hair at Natasha.

"What do you need?"

And the look in her eye was all Natasha needed to know: Edie had been bleached once upon a time too. She was sorry in a way that said she knew how Natasha felt. _Exactly_ how she felt.

Natasha swallowed. "History, if you've got 'em. Anything from about 2012 on." She added a small, non-threatening smile.

Edie's eyebrows went up. "That's… a lot of history."

"Even just an overview would be helpful."

The girl took a breath and climbed off her bed. "I don't know if we have anything that far back, but Vika'll know." She pushed past Natasha, head down again, and Natasha had to strain to hear her, she spoke so quietly. "She keeps track of the books better than me. I leave most of mine with her now… 'cept my favorites, of course."

Edie led Natasha to a room that was at least twice the size of the one they'd be sharing. There were no beds in this one, but instead a small table with a few chairs, as well as some faded and lumpy cushions scattered around the floor. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books. It was a mini-library, with books stacked to the ceiling, in heaps on the floor, and piles on the table. A couple people lounged on some cushions, faces buried in the volumes they held. At the table sat an elderly woman with flyaway silver hair. She grinned when she saw Edie.

"You cannae finished that one already, lass," Vika said. Her voice was scratchy and laced with a Scottish accent. "Only picked it up at breakfast."

Edie surged forward and mumbled a reply that Natasha didn't catch.

Vika's eyes lit on Natasha. "Brought a friend, eh, Edie?"

"Red. She's new. And…" Edie glanced unsurely at Natasha.

"Bleached," Natasha finished.

Vika inhaled sharply and she clenched her fists at her side. "Those mingin', craggin'—I could just _cowk_! Those _facking_ —"

Edie squeaked.

"Sorry lass, sorry, apologies. You know how I…" Vika shook her head. She huffed and relaxed her hands, though the redness in her sagging cheeks took a good minute to disappear. "Tell me what you need, lass," she said to Natasha. "Tell me what you want to know, and ol' Vika'll find it."

Natasha left the little library ten minutes later, loaded down with several books. Edie trailed after her without a word. When Natasha spread the books out on her bed and cracked open the first volume, Edie smiled and looked inexplicably proud.

* * *

Natasha spent a few days reading. Though she took breaks in the Cantina for thin meals and to get bits of information from people that the books lacked, she returned to her room to continue going through them. Garrett and Veer each took the time to check in on her from time to time, though they were content to let her be while she came to terms with the state of the world. She figured if she was going to have any chance of making it through this, she had to have an idea of what she was up against.

What Natasha learned about the world since she'd last been in it was horrifying.

The books she had didn't go into deep detail about anything earlier than about 2050, but what it did gloss over was enough to know that the world had gone to shit. There were multiple major catastrophes and attacks across the globe that levelled major cities. Robot invasions, alien attacks, chemical warfare…

Here she found a footnote that made her stomach drop: _After the mysterious and complete disappearance of the powerful and groundbreaking team known as "The Avengers" in the 2010's, chaos reigned, and hundreds tried to fill the void they left behind—for good and for evil._

Natasha swallowed. It was hard to grasp that her team had left such a vacuum in the world. They were virtually newly formed, not quite a full year of saving the world under their belt. Granted, they completed dozens and dozens of missions and dealt with a whole host of things she's never thought she'd see, let alone fight. But still, for them to have meant _that_ much? She couldn't wrap her mind around it.

She read on and it didn't get better from there. Wars and crises and a massive virus. Countries became isolated. Some were almost completely uninhabitable. Governments were in tatters, dismantled, reformed into unrecognizable pieces…

Her eyes blurred with tears and fatigue.

She moved onto a book about New Australia and found it written entirely from a Coal's perspective—how those designated "Supers" were dangerous and insane, intending only harm on society. It said reporting a Super sighting was the right and responsible thing to do. How the way to handle a Super in the family was to say your goodbye and turn them in. She had to put that book on the floor before she put it through the wall.

Natasha stacked the books at the foot of her bed and crawled under the covers late on her fourth day in the rebel compound. Her mind buzzed with images of death and endless paragraphs about how the world had completely fallen apart in the last few hundred years. She closed her eyes and wished Clint were here. He wouldn't know what to say, but he'd wrap his arms around her and that would be all she'd need.

She wanted to fix it. She wanted to find a way to stop this future from ever coming true, but maybe she couldn't—maybe the world was destined for this, a train barrelling down the tracks with no brakes, headed to the canyon where the tracks haven't been built yet.

Worse, maybe she was stuck here. Maybe she would have to stay with these people from now on and fight to survive in this insane, dystopian reality.

Natasha opened her eyes and her heart sped up. She couldn't be—she _could not_ be stuck here. She forced herself to take a slow breath. She'd been so busy worrying about how to survive her immediate situation, been consumed with learning about the world, she hadn't even taken a moment to consider how in the hell she was ever going to get back home.

When Bruce had showed up on that table, he hadn't said much. The team had been tossed in time, and she needed to get out of the Coal prison and figure out what happened. Well, she'd done that. But now what? And where—when—was the rest of the team? She had no clue how she could possibly return to her own time. Maybe if Bruce or Tony were with her, they could figure it out and she could help. As it was, she didn't think she had any other choice except try to adapt. She didn't have the know-how to build herself a time machine out of here.

Another slow, slow breath. _You don't know,_ she thought. _That's okay._ She closed her eyes again. _You can figure this out._ Even as she thought it, she knew there was no way for her to do that.

But lying to herself had allowed her to fall asleep when she needed to in the past, so lie she did until she drifted off.

* * *

They got her some fresh clothes so she didn't have to wear the Coal prisoner jumpsuit anymore. She returned the books to Vika, who fixed her with sympathetic look when Natasha said she'd read them cover to cover.

"S'not pretty," the old woman said. "But is what it is, s'pose." She smoothed her hand over the cover of the top book. "At least we still have these to tell our stories."

Natasha nodded. After the Tech War, any books remaining to this day were precious, scavenged from the ashes of a ruined world or painstakingly printed in limited quantities on old print presses. It was astonishing to know that these people functioned with the equivalent of 1920's technology while the Coals lived off incredible futuristic tech.

The feeling that everything here was so very, very wrong bubbled up in Natasha and she had to get out of the windowless room.

Unfortunately, she wasn't able to go far, since she was still "a probie". While Natasha understood and respected their caution and rules, it got old fast. She was only allowed to wander around the barracks and to the Cantina or rec room and back, always with somebody trailing her like a shadow. Usually it was Veer, which Natasha didn't mind so much, since he was always up for telling her stories—nothing important to the rebel cause, just anecdotes about his friends.

"Garrett's scaling the wall, and he's always been a right monkey when it comes to climbing," Veer said jovially. "Hell if he even needs the ropes. But he hits the top and bam! Coal guard on the roof!"

Natasha's lips quirked up at the edges. "Sounds like a problem."

"Right! So, he thinks he's boinked. Damn Garrett just yanks a pocketful of junk from his pants and tosses it right at the Coal. Coal thinks he's gettin' hit with somethin' lethal, jumps back with a shout, and Garrett dives. Gets him down and out in a hot second. Pops the code in the door like he was supposed to, repels back down the cragging building—no sweat."

He paused to take a swig of his water. Natasha waited, sensing a twist in the story.

"'Till he's six feet off the ground," Veer continued, his voice dropping a little lower for dramatic emphasis. "And gets his ropes tangled. Poor nut's hanging there, and the alarms bangin' off because now they've seen him, right? And Hannick can't untangle him fast enough, so what's left to do?"

"Clearly you didn't leave him behind," put in Natasha. "So how'd he get out of it?"

Veer held up a finger. "Well, see, now that's the trick. Garrett's upside, working himself out of his situation. Hannick's red-faced and panickin'. Now remember, Ophie was on diversion duty? 'Course that's about when she comes haulin' outta the sewer, head to toe in you-don't-wanna-know, and she's spittin' fire."

Veer shook with a deep belly laugh and Natasha chuckled too, picturing the scene.

"She gets Hanni's gun and when the Coals come pouncin' out, Ophie roars and runs and fires and scares the ever-living crag out of 'em. Coals turn tail, Garrett has his gear in pieces and falls on his head in the dirt. Hannick's got his shit together so he gets Garrett up and then they drag Ophie outta there, back to the beamer, and once they're in, I just say, I say: 'I craggin' told you so.'"

Natasha laughed again with Veer, his eyes sparkling with mirth and memories. Often, she couldn't quite tell whether Veer's stories were true, exaggerated, or flat out lies and she enjoyed working at discerning how much truth was in his words. This one had her stumped and judging by the smirk at the edge of his lips as he took another swig of his water, he knew it too.

Other times, Natasha learned about these people without Veer ever saying anything incriminating—she naturally put the pieces together as the days went by. Things like: Garrett and Yumi had some on-again/off-again romantic relationship (though Veer sounded convinced it was always "on," they didn't always know it). She learned that Jeks had a big mouth that got him into trouble, Veer was unflinchingly calm in pretty much every situation, Ophie was a complete badass, and Garrett could MacGyver just about anything.

Filling hours chatting with Veer and the others meant passing the time. It meant not dwelling on her impossible situation.

Evenings back in her room were much harder. She was restless and edgy. She'd faced worse; she'd dealt with missions gone wrong and endured terrible conditions, physically and mentally. She'd been a prisoner, waiting for days or weeks without contact. She'd been brainwashed and more. But there was always an objective. A goal. _Something_ to move towards—escape, information gathering, taking down a target…

This was limbo. A terrible, apocalyptic limbo she was forced to wait in and muddle through.

Natasha ground her teeth together and flopped down onto her bed. Well, if the universe was determined to trap her here, she was determined to make it through. She hadn't survived so much horror in her past only to give up on this latest one. Even if she had to actively choose every single day to get through this, then choose she would.

She wouldn't let herself do anything else.

* * *

 _ **A/n:** So here's a glossary, now that Nat is catching on to all their wacky terms, you can too! ;D_

keen—okay, good  
choice—excellent, brilliant, awesome  
crag—derogatory term for someone; like bitch, bastard.  
cragging—strong curse that has developed over the years and is now one that 'everybody' uses  
bleached—the process used by the Coalition to completely mind-wipe someone (usually an undesirable person of some sort). Takes away all memories (life to this point, name, etc) though leaves 'functions' behind (ability to speak, walk, certain learned skills).  
sideways—weird, confusing, crazy (ex. wow bro, that's sideways)  
beamer—the small sized hover transport ships used by both the Coals and the Rebels  
mucker—ill-bred, vulgar  
carnie—freaks and show offs; derogatory term for Supers  
peeped—saw/see, look/looked, spot/spotted (depends on context)  
vac'd—short for "evacuated"

 _Australian Slang:_  
whacker—idiot, someone who talks drivel, dickhead  
grouse—great, terrific

 _Scottish Slang:_  
cowk—heave/throw up  
mingin'—horrible/dirty  
facking—fucking

 _Language changes and the way we speak it changes. So while I didn't want to go crazy and make it unrecognizable, I want it to be noticeably different and mixed up. This is why most of the Rebels talk kinda funny (not just the slang words, but in general). That being said, natives will have stronger slang and accents—i.e., Vika is a native Scotti, Jeks and Garrett both come from native Australian parents, etc._


	9. Chapter 9

**[ TONY ]**

 _"Time. Time, it has been proposed, is the fourth dimension. And yet, for mortal man, time has no dimension at all. We are like horses with blinders, seeing only what lies before us. Forever guessing the future and fabricating the past." – Roebling, Kate & Leopold _

* * *

The longer they rode, the more Tony lost track of time. Somewhere about four or five days after they'd left Dunfe, he finally started to feel like he could maybe do this after all. Maybe he could actually survive this whole shit-show. He'd made it almost two weeks in medieval Scotland without dying, so he figured he was doing all right. Right?

He wasn't a master with a sword, but the steady training from Dommal had brought his skill level up from "hopeless" to "adequate." His saddle soreness was receding, the blisters on his feet in the too-thin leather boots were becoming callouses, and his back was getting used to the ground. Plus, he wasn't dealing with massive caffeine-withdrawal headaches anymore, which was nice.

Mad John took to calling him "Starkling" with irritating consistency. That was fine until it caught on with Anselm, William, and the others, which made it as _annoying as hell_. Alric apologized for it, but must've taken his fair share of amusement in the name, as he didn't bother to stop the others. His lips twitched with a suppressed smile every time.

"It could be worse," said Dommal cheerily. "Be grateful they don't refer to you as something even more insulting."

Tony rolled his eyes and Dommal laughed.

The younger knight's continuous optimism about everything was something else that was pretty damn annoying after a while, too. Tony chalked up his irritation to his general exhaustion, mild starvation and malnutrition, and continued homesickness. Like everything else, though, he was getting used to all of it.

Dommal wasn't all that bad. He was the only one who could tell when Tony had had enough ribbing, and enough riding, and just enough _everything_. He was good at ensuring Tony got a little peace and quiet when he needed it. Tony couldn't be mad at the kid for that, no matter how annoyingly cheery Dommal was.

It was in those times, when Dommal knew Tony had had enough, that Tony wondered if Alric had told the kid about their conversation in the forest, if Dommal was going a little easier on him as a result. Ss Tony spent more and more time with the group of knights and soldiers, though, he figured Dommal was just that kind of guy: the one to be obliging and kind to anyone and everyone, to look out for his friends and do what was best for them, even at his own expense.

The kid often volunteered for night watch after a gruelling day or to run supplies back to the rear guard. He was always ready with a smile and a joke, and even when it was irritating, Tony admitted it was still kinda nice.

 _Steve would like him_ , Tony decided. _Natasha would want to punch him after fifteen minutes._

"Look!" said Dommal, grinning from ear to ear, green eyes sparkling. He pointed out a flock of white birds taking flight off the ridge. "Aren't they magnificent?"

 _Okay, more like five minutes._

"They're merely birds," Mad John grumbled.

Tony privately agreed but Dommal's enthusiasm at the sight didn't deserve dampening. "They really are," he said, ignoring John's snort.

"Count on the Starkling to be impressed by mere fowl," the big man growled.

"I can take pleasure in everyday things," Tony shot back. "Unlike some people who insist on sucking the joy out of life and being _foul_ themselves."

Mad John glared and Tony smiled widely back.

"Good for you, Sir Tony," laughed Dommal. "That's the spirit!"

They made camp on the edge of vast forest. Rolling meadows stretched out for miles to the east and south, and the forest thickened to the north. As the sun descended and cast the world in deep orange and blue tones, Tony settled down in the grass to enjoy his supper. He'd only had one bite of his piping hot chicken leg when he was bumped from behind hard enough to send his meal flying into the campfire's ashes.

"Apologies, Starkling," John grunted, coming around the circle of men seated by the fire. He plopped down beside Clerebold. "'Twas an accident."

Tony ground his jaw together. _Like hell it was,_ he thought _._

He met John's eyes across the fire—the other man was silently daring him to make a fuss. John chomped down on his own chunk of juicy meat. Tony didn't need to look to know tonight's birds had already been divvied up and there wasn't anything left for him to have instead.

"It's no problem," Tony said, impressed he didn't sound as pissed as he felt. He sat up straighter. "I wasn't that hungry anyway." He took a big swig of ale from his leathery canteen and ignored the rumble of his stomach.

Alric and his sharp ears and eyes didn't miss a thing. "Neither am I," he said and held out a portion of his meager meal to Tony. "Here, Sir Tony. Have some of mine."

Mad John huffed and shared an exasperated look with Anselm. Tony colored but honestly didn't care if this was some sort of manly test he was failing. He was flipping hungry.

"Thanks," he said to Alric, and picked up a mouthful of dark meat.

Another thing he was getting really good at was not thinking about people handing him food. And not thinking about how dirty Alric's hands were, or dirty _he_ was, or how freaking medieval this whole thing was. He chewed and swallowed, doing his best to ignore the churn of his gut.

Well, he was _trying_ to get good at not thinking about it.

* * *

That night when Tony got up to relieve himself, on his way back to his cushy cot, he realized the men on watch were talking about him. Tony slowed to a stop behind some trees to eavesdrop; he couldn't help it.

"...Sir Tony's story?"

"I think he's a nobleman," William was saying, his voice low and melodic. "Some rich baron who had his lands stolen and now he has naught else but to trounce about the countryside."

"Nay," said Anselm. "He is a fat prince, on the run from his enemies."

Tony glanced down at his stomach in the dark. _Fat? Asshole._ He was liking Anselm less and less the more time he spent with the guy. Plus, he seemed to be tight with Mad John, which lost him some more points in Tony's book.

"It is unkind to speak ill of our fellow knight this way," Dommal piped up, rebuking his friend. "You do not know his experiences."

A burst of warm affection filled Tony's chest. Good ol' Dommal, always rushing to his defense. This, of course, was followed quickly by a pang of guilt that Tony was still completely lying to the kid about his "experiences". But it wasn't like Tony could tell him the truth.

"Neither do you," William pointed out. "Suppose he is false? Suppose he is a criminal, a vagrant? A treasonous fugitive?"

"He does not strike me as such," Dommal replied.

"Perhaps you are too trusting. Young. Naive."

"Per _haps_ I am not so cynical," Dommal shot back. "Unwilling to believe good intent when it is as plain as day."

"I still think he is a fat, useless prince," Anselm put in, sounding bored.

They continued tossing theories back and forth, amusing themselves by inventing a whole backstory about the Fallen Prince of Winterfell. Tony listened, torn between complete irritation and trying not to laugh and give himself away. When they finally tired of the subject and moved onto other topics, Tony tiptoed back to his cot. With images of himself as a wealthy prince in a massive castle—albeit a millennium or two away—lingering in his imagination, he eventually fell asleep.

* * *

The company took a full day to rest; Tony didn't know whose idea it had been, but he was grateful not to have to ride his horse for once. He spent the morning doing little but watching the other men in the campsite tend to their horses, spar with each other, tell stories, and repair worn-out boots and saddlebags. In the afternoon, as the sun peaked high over their heads, Dommal retrieved the pair of wooden practice swords from the stable boys and tossed one in Tony's lap.

"Time to give it another go, yes?" he prodded.

So much for a day of rest.

Dommal poked Tony's knee with his stick. "Come, Sir Tony. Your skills will not improve by merely observing all day."

"Fine," Tony relented and got to his feet.

Dommal was patient when they sparred, as he and Tony circled each other at the edge of the campsite. Tony, on the other hand, had never been very patient and couldn't resist attacking first. Every time. He dove at the other man, slashing wildly with his wooden sword. Dommal dodged him and whirled around to snap Tony on the back.

"That was foolish," the knight commented with his signature amused grin.

"Yeah, I'm kinda known for that," Tony grimaced, rubbing the spot where Dommal had struck him.

"Try again."

Tony tried to wait—he seriously did—but after a half minute of circling and watching Dommal's muscles tense and relax with anticipation, Tony went after him. He jabbed and swung, missed, and got another thump from Dommal's stick, this time to the shoulder. Tony grunted and stumbled.

"Attacking first shows your weaknesses to your opponent," Dommal reminded him. "You must learn to be patient—let your enemy make the first move so that you may counter it. Let me show you."

Tony resumed his ready stance, planting his feet in the dirt and grass. Dommal lifted his sword and lunged, stabbing at Tony's middle. He saw it coming and dodged out of the way.

"You see?"

"Yeah," Tony admitted. This was a lot harder than just blasting some bad guys with his repulsors, and he didn't particularly enjoy it. Dommal wasn't taking it quite as easy on Tony as usual, which was both irksome and welcome. After all, Tony wouldn't learn if Dommal handled him with kid gloves all the time.

"Again." Dommal pounced even faster this time.

Tony barely got out of the way, but he understood what Dommal was saying—he could see the other man tense and anticipated his first blow. When he thought about it a little more, it was kinda like boxing and hand-to-hand combat—he wasn't an expert, but he'd taken down his fair share of people that way. Plenty of hours in the ring with Happy and random personal trainers over the years had to count for something, right?

Tony brought his sword up when Dommal came at him, and this time he connected with the kid's slow offensive maneuver. And then again, and again.

He blinked and let out a surprised laugh as he blocked another slash from Dommal. "I think I'm getting the hang of this!"

"Well done, Sir Tony!" Alric called from the sidelines where he and William were watching the makeshift duel.

Dommal increased his speed and overtook Tony, getting a few hits in. Tony wasn't about to be cocky, but he did get in some pretty solid attacks himself, and damn if he wasn't _legitimately_ getting the hang of this. The training session went on until Tony was soaked with sweat but wielded the sword better than he ever had. If only, you know, about a fraction as good as Dommal. But still.

Tony arced the sword over his head and spun, and couldn't hide the triumphant grin that broke out on his face when he stalled Dommal's complicated counter-attack.

"Hah!"

 _Man, if Thor could see me now—I'm a sword god!_ Okay, so maybe he _was_ being cocky after all. He figured he was allowed.

Dommal backed off, panting, and lowered his sword. "Well met, Sir Tony," he said and bowed. "Well met indeed."

Tony bowed back and swiped his arm across his wet forehead, still grinning. He was totally going to be an awesome knight in no time.

Clerebold tore across the ground, out of the nearby trees, yelling and waving his arms. A spike of cold dread went through Tony.

"What's wrong?" Alric called out in alarm.

"Spies! Scots!" shouted the knight. "They're coming!"

The campsite erupted into action. Fires doused, horses rounded up, weapons gathered, armour and chainmail slapped on. Dommal charged past Tony one way, Alric bolted the other. Tony spun on the spot holding his wooden practice sword, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

He tried to grab at Charles. "What do I—" but the knight shook him off. Tony reached out for William. "What should I—hey—" William either didn't hear him or ignored him and kept on running.

Tony gripped his stick tightly. _Shit!_ He didn't have armour, he didn't have a weapon, and if they were under attack, he was so very, very screwed. Despite his puffed up, triumphant feeling a minute earlier, he knew he wasn't _that_ amazing with a sword.

A horn sounded in the distance—a long, deep, mournful kind of sound that made goosebumps sweep over his skin. He whirled in the direction the noise had come from, but if the enemy was coming from the north through the forest, Tony couldn't see them yet.

Alric rushed in front of Tony. "Here." He pushed a bundle of chain mail at him and grabbed the practice sword out of Tony's hands. "Put this on," he instructed.

With shaking hands, Tony did as he was told, yanking the chainmail over his head. It fell to his mid-thighs and was quite loose, but it was better than nothing. Alric handed him a sword—a real, steel sword. It was much heavier than Tony expected and he almost dropped it in surprise.

Alric gave him a nod and hurried for the trees. Panic sparked in Tony's chest and he took off after Alric, but stopped at the treeline.

"Wait—I don't know what to do!" he blurted. He didn't know how to sword fight, not really, he couldn't go to battle—not without his suit or his team or _something_. He couldn't _do_ this _._ He'd never felt more out of his element.

"Just stay back," Alric told him. He nodded again and sprinted deeper into the trees.

"Right, sure," Tony mumbled, seeing the majority of the men he'd travelled with rushing after Alric into the forest. His fear subsided. The other men would take care of the threat. All he had to do was wait. It was fine, it was going to be totally fine.

Shouts and roars sounded beyond where Tony could see. That chilling horn echoed through the leaves and there was clanging and horses shrieking and war cries and screams of pain.

He took a few stilted steps, struck by indecision. Staying behind seemed like a good way to be safe, and Alric _had_ told him to stay put. But it also felt pretty cowardly. These men were all risking their lives and Tony was just standing there.

Still, it wasn't like Tony was going to be of any use in a real honest-to-God medieval battle, so following his comrades was a completely stupid idea. No matter how morbidly curious he was… well, when would be the next time he'd see a real medieval battle?

He could stay really far back, though, maybe take a peek. Tony moved farther into the forest, and this time, his heart beat faster with excitement and adrenaline...

Tony stopped walking. No, following was completely and _totally_ stupid. Getting killed was not worth getting a glimpse of the battle. He gave his head a shake and glanced back at the camp, barely discernible between all the trees. The men remaining were the elderly or ill and injured, with only a couple knights to protect them. Tony was supposed to be one of them. What the hell was he doing?

A crashing noise—closer than any of the other battle sounds. Tony whirled. A blood and mud spattered man hurtled through the trees, swinging a massive, blood-soaked axe high over his head. The howl coming from the man's mouth was feral and raw, thick with hate. Tony stumbled backwards, clumsily raising his sword. His heart pummeled his collarbone and his arms trembled with fear.

The man swung his axe and Tony dove behind a tree. The axe cracked into the tree's trunk and gave Tony the second he needed to get back on his feet. The man freed his weapon. He shouted at Tony—ugly, incomprehensible words—and took another powerful swipe.

Tony brought his sword up just in time, holding it tight with both hands and bracing himself. The impact with the other man's weapon jarred Tony so hard, he bit his tongue. His arms buckled and he dropped, rolling out of the way. The axe slammed into the ground, so close it ripped in Tony's pants.

He kicked out, connecting with the man's shins. The man yelped and staggered a step back. He charged with that bloody axe again. Tony had a terrified second to wonder which of his friend's blood was dripping off that steel—and if the other Avengers would ever find out how (or when and where) Tony Stark died—before the axe came slashing down.


	10. Chapter 10

**[ NATASHA ]**

 _"And what if you could go back in time and take all those hours of pain and darkness and replace them with something better?" – Gretchen, Donnie Darko_

* * *

A change in routine finally came towards the end of the week: tucked against the far wall of the Cantina, Natasha and Edie silently enjoyed lunch and books (Edie with a mystery thriller, Nat with a fictional tome about wrangling dragons) when the alarms sounded. Natasha jumped to her feet, on alert—were they under attack?—but Edie waved her to sit back down.

"That's not for us," she said. "They'll tell us if something's wrong."

Natasha watched the doorway where a handful of people ran past, including Veer. The alarm quit a few minutes later and she waited anxiously for some indication of why it'd gone off in the first place. Her book couldn't hold her attention after that, no matter how hard she tried. Finally, a new alarm sounded—lower toned instead of the clang of the previous one.

" _That's_ ours," Edie piped up, closing her novel. "We head to main hangar, and they'll tell us what's going on."

Natasha followed, buzzing with nervous energy. As much as she didn't wish trouble for her rebel friends, she was dying for _something_ to happen, and she couldn't help being a little glad that it finally had. With any luck, she could get out of the base, even for just a few hours. She was only able to circle the halls so many times before going crazy here.

Garrett didn't waste any time the moment the hangar was filled with people; he stepped up onto a crate so he could address them all.

"The Reek crew transed us: the Coals wasted Vista Base," he told them grimly. A wave of gasps and murmured exclamations rolled through the crowd. "It's flat-out, nothin' left. We don't know how it went down, but we gotta get a Scav crew out there before the Coals do, even if there's nothing left to scav. We gotta be sure."

A couple of volunteer hands shot in the air and Natasha threw hers up as well. Ophie and Yumi spoke to each other quick and quiet, casting glances over the crowd, and more than once nodding in Natasha's direction. Garrett acknowledged his volunteers.

"We'll debrief more later, but for now, we gotta hop." He offered a hasty salute then jumped down off his crate. Natasha and the other volunteers squeezed their way to the front of the throng that slowly dispersed.

"Keen, Red?" asked Garrett, raising his eyebrow at her.

"I want to help," she said. "Please let me do something useful."

Garrett looked to Yumi and Ophie. The latter shrugged and Yumi pressed her lips into a thin line, then gave him the smallest of nods. Garrett agreed with the silent conversation and faced Natasha.

"All right, we'll take you. Head to that beamer and we'll pitch in five."

She followed the others to one of the wingless ships in the hangar bay and waited. Garrett and Veer joined her and the volunteers minutes later. The ship rumbled to life as Natasha climbed up the ramp and took a position towards the back of the ship's belly. Once the vehicle's door shuddered closed and the machine left the hanger, Garrett addressed the group at large.

"The Reek reports were thin on the details," he said. "Best we know, Vista's flat-out gone, like I said. I don't know what we're gonna find, if anything, that's worth a scav, but whatever's there we'll have to get quick. No doubt the Coals'll be coming on fast to check their handiwork. More'n likely expect us to come out of hiding to scav, too, so keep your heads up."

"Survivors?" a woman across from Natasha asked, her voice trembling only a little.

Garrett's shoulders sank. "None that we know of."

The rest of the ride passed in somber silence.

* * *

The rebels' beamer landed and the small group disembarked under the hot sun, high in the sky. Natasha's breath snagged in her chest at the apocalyptic sight that awaited them, a hundred feet away across the red dirt and scraggly grass.

A massive area, at least a few football fields long and a couple wide, was black, cratered, idly smoking, and strewn with debris. Charred metal frames dotted the landscape where structures and vehicles had once been. The air hung heavily around them, thick with the smell of smoke, chemicals, and death.

"My God," Veer whispered.

The rebels approached the center of the attack somberly. Natasha clenched her fists, wishing she had a weapon. There were no visible threats, but the scene left her shocked and edgy anyway. A gun in her fingers would've soothed the coils of tension snaking around her ribs.

Garrett kicked away a sooty chunk of metal. "There really is nothing left."

Natasha's gut churned. If this base had been anything like the one where she was staying, that was an understatement.

As the group picked their way through the ashes, Natasha stumbled on something sticking out of the gray flakes. Her throat burned when she realized it was a scorched human bone. She didn't want to ask how many people had been lost.

The rebels walked past smoldering husks of ships and kicked through the sea of ashes trying to find something useful, or at least salvageable. Veer uncovered a blackened safe that had sunk sideways into the ground; it looked to be in decent shape so he, Natasha, and a couple of others got to work unearthing it.

Garrett's shoulders slumped with each step. For someone not much younger than her, he looked incredibly old. The faint lines around his eyes, smudged with dirt, stood out stark against his skin. Natasha wished she could say or do something that would ease his pain, but she knew nothing could. She didn't know him very well, but that didn't mean she didn't feel compassion for his losses.

"At least a dozen vehicles," he mumbled, cutting a path towards one of the burned-out ships.

Natasha followed in his wake, not sure if he was talking to her or not. He moved slow and heavy, as if he barely remained standing while failure and guilt tried to push him into the cratered ground beneath their feet.

"Couple hundred stolen weapons…probably a quarter of the tech stash…another library..." He raked his hand through his hair, streaking the blond with soot. "Few hundred…lives…" His voice choked on the last word.

Garrett turned away from her and ducked his head. Natasha hesitantly reached out her hand and pressed it to his shoulder. His back tensed for a second, then relaxed. She still didn't know what to say, what kind of words of comfort she could possibly give. She didn't know the weight he was bearing or how to help him carry it.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. It didn't cover it—nothing could.

She dropped her hand when he faced her. His eyes shone with tears.

"It's just…every time I think we're getting close, you know?" He dashed his hand across his eyes. "We were up one—we finally, for a second, were gonna have the upper hand and do something big." He exhaled a shaky breath. "We spread things out between the bases so everything's not lost in one go in case…in case…"

"In case this happens," she finished quietly. "It's smart."

"But now…" he gestured helplessly to the aftermath around him. "We still lost so _much_."

Natasha's eyes prickled. She couldn't stop her thoughts from bouncing to the hospital fire all those years ago—the way Clint tried to assure her that it wasn't her fault, that she'd done everything she could, everything _right_. She pictured the Chitauri tearing up Manhattan and Tony falling through the sky. The destruction and loss in both cases still stung, even when there were technically victories.

Before she could muster something else inadequate to say, Garrett straightened and shoved the last of the tears away from his eyes. With a clear of his throat, she saw him shut his emotions off, saw him compartmentalize and become a leader. She noticed it because she did it and she'd watched Steve do it, too.

"I need someone to be on the lookout for Coals," Garrett told her, his voice flat and commanding. It was harsh after his pain a second ago, but Natasha didn't flinch. She understood all too well and wished she didn't. "That little hill over there keen to you?"

Natasha nodded curtly, shoving her own emotions into a box and locking it tight. On the far side of what was left of the base, a rust-colored slope rose up. It'd be a solid vantage point to spot trouble.

"They'll probably be right on our ass, any minute now," he continued. "We gotta snatch what we can and hightail it."

"I'll holler if I see anything," said Natasha with another sharp nod. She hurried away from Garrett.

She kept watch standing on the nearby slope after that, eyes flicking over the horizon for any movement. It was easier than being around the pain on her new friend's face.

Maybe only a quarter of an hour passed by when she spotted something. She narrowed her eyes and inhaled, ready to call out, but waited another second to be sure. The way the heat rippled across the desert made it difficult to pick out the details of what she was seeing. It soared over the ground, it was white and smooth—

 _Damn it_ , she thought. Aloud, she shouted, "They're here!"

The rebels scrambled through the rubble, yelling back and forth. She glanced back at the approaching transport ship and could see right away that it was coming in fast. The rebels weren't going to get out of there in time. Not unless there was a way to knock some speed off that Coal beamer.

Worry sparked in her chest. The last thing she wanted to do was find herself in Coal custody again, but she wasn't about to let Garrett and the crew get taken prisoner either. Her own survival in this world would be a hell of a lot easier with them than without them.

Natasha moved without thinking. She raced down the slope and bolted for the open crates of weapons that Veer and a few others had salvaged and were dragging towards the rebel beamer. Veer barked at her to get to the ship with the others but Natasha ignored him. She snatched up the largest gun they had sitting on top of the stash. It resembled an oversized, juiced-up M1014, yet was shockingly lighter in weight than she thought it should've been.

"These work?" she demanded, thinking about the dead gun she'd picked up back in the Coal compound. She checked that it was loaded.

Veer's partner blinked at her. "They've been stripped and jacked so they'll work for anyone if that's—"

"Thanks." Natasha vaulted back to her lookout point.

"Red—no! Get back here!" Garrett hollered behind her.

She ignored him, too, and knelt down in the dirt, taking aim at the white Coalition beamer cutting through the sticky, hot air. She pulled the charging handle. Waited. Inhaled. Blocked out the shouts of her fellow rebels. Waited, exhaled, inhaled, waited— _there_. In range.

Natasha fired. She anticipated the kick, but it still almost knocked her down. It'd been awhile since she'd fired one of these—or something like it, at least. She let loose a few more rounds and was rewarded for her effort when her aim was true and holes riddled the beamer's nose. The weaponless ship bucked and smoked, slowing significantly. Natasha smirked.

"Red!" Garrett yelled, closer than he should've been. "C'mon! Get outta there now!"

Natasha fired a couple more times at the Coal transport, then without hesitation, turned and ran. They were seconds away from coming over the hill and in for a landing, but she'd earned them those extra seconds to flee. Garrett, initially running towards her, spun on his heel as she came close.

"What the hell, Red?" He snatched the gun from her.

"Buying you time!" she retorted and poured on the speed. Garrett, impressively, matched her.

The rebels finished loading the ship while Natasha and Garrett bolted through the debris. Veer waved his arms frantically.

"C'mon, c'mon, _c'mon!"_ he bellowed as they drew nearer.

Natasha glanced over her shoulder. The incoming Coal beamer sluggishly crested the slope, belching smoke. _Slowed you right the hell down,_ she thought with another self-satisfied smirk. _And now you can't follow us._

She threw herself through the open door of the rebel's ship, which took flight the second her body met the metal floor. Garrett was in right behind her and threw his arm over her to keep her inside the boat as it lurched. Veer slammed the door shut. As the ship roared away from Vista Base, Garrett and Natasha both rolled onto their backs, panting hard.

"What…the…hell…Red…" Garrett repeated, but when she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, his features were washed in a relieved grin.

The corners of Natasha's lips tipped up. "You're…welcome," she managed.

* * *

The following day, after a small breakfast of fruit from the Cantina, Garrett took Natasha to a meeting room like the one she'd been in on her first day in the base. Yumi was there and still eyed her with an air of suspicion. Though her stance remained relaxed, Natasha could tell she was alert and ready to react to a threat in an instant. Jeks, seated beside Veer, winked at her from across the table.

"Ready for your first official mission, Red?" asked Garrett, tossing her a wide grin.

"Mission?" Natasha said. Yumi's frown deepened.

"For the record, I'm not keen with this," she said.

"We _know_." Garrett shot her a hard look. "But you didn't see how she fought them Pockers that day. It was damn effortless. She escaped not only a cell, but she clocked out four on top of that, while cuffed up. You didn't see the way she 'vaced us at Vista—shot the Coals down to give us some seconds to run."

Yumi's lips pressed into a thin line. "I'm done arguing with you about this, Vale. You wanna risk your skin with her when she's still a probie, it's your head."

Garrett clenched his jaw and a host of unspoken words passed between him and Yumi.

"It's a slip job," Jeks piped up. "If there's ever a time to test the probie, it'd be for somethin' like this."

Yumi didn't reply.

"If I wanted you guys dead or something, I would've done it by now," Natasha put it. Yumi's eyes flashed suspiciously but Natasha ploughed on. "I could've let the Coals land and snap you up at Vista. I could've snuck out of my room and grabbed one of those ATV hover things you've got in the hangar. Sure, Veer's been watching my door, but he wouldn't be that hard for me to overpower."

Veer opened his mouth to protest but Natasha held up her hand.

"It's not bragging, it's statement of fact—I have a very particular set of skills that you haven't seen yet."

"Look, if this is supposed to make me feel better…" Yumi narrowed her eyes.

Natasha continued, "You keep the weapons stash on the west side of the base. You keep the cannibalized, deactivated tech three corridors over from that. Yes, those areas are restricted and no, I didn't break your rules and sneak around to find this stuff out. I'm careful and I watch things—I see who goes down those halls, when, and whether they come out with stuff in their bags or not."

Garrett's expression slid from concerned to impressed, and despite the tough set to Yumi's lips, Natasha could tell by the flicker in the other woman's eye that she was impressed too.

"I know the night watch's rotations. I could've escaped. I could've gotten a message out to the Coals. I could've done a lot of things, but I didn't. I'm in this, with you, for the long haul," she said.

She shoved away the pang of worry about how long that really would end up being. Fingers crossed that Bruce pulled her out of here sooner rather than later.

"I meant it when I said I wanted to help," Natasha added. "And I still do. So whatever information or mission you've gathered up in the last few days—let me in. I'm here for you. What you're doing—trying to save the world? It's _right_."

She spoke as earnestly as she could and hoped they believed her, especially when she really did mean it. For now, at least, she wasn't going anywhere. She believed in their cause and while it wasn't technically her fight, it didn't mean she was going to sit back and watch, either. She'd put herself out there however they needed—it was the least she could do.

That realization struck her and she swallowed hard. Before the Avengers, she wouldn't have gotten involved. It wasn't like she never helped people, but she'd had self-preservation drilled into her so severely for so long, it didn't make sense to risk herself without some sort of end goal or sufficient benefit. It was yet another thing that had changed in her since S.H.I.E.L.D., since Clint, since the Avengers.

Since Manhattan.

Veer looked from Natasha to Garrett, who glanced at Yumi. The woman studied Natasha for a long moment, and her expression softened a tiny bit. She gave Garrett a nod.

"Okay, then." He faced Natasha. "So, there's a Coal storage facility and they've got their graspin' fingers on some items we sorely need after Vista went up. We got word about it and checked it out—lead's solid, genuine. Small group of us are gonna get in, grab the stuff, and get out. Hopefully no muss 'n' fuss."

A burst of nerves and excitement surged through Natasha. Infiltration and stealing? _Finally_ something that didn't make her feel woefully off kilter and clueless.

She smiled. "That happens to be something I am very good at."

Garrett's handsome grin returned. "Kinda had a feeling you might be."

"So what's the plan?"


	11. Chapter 11

_A/n: Moderate gore and violence warning for this chapter. Battle is really icky._

* * *

 **[ TONY ]**

 _"I believe our adventure through time has taken a most serious turn." –Ted, Bill & Ted's Most Excellent Adventure _

* * *

Tony cried out.

The furious axe-man gasped as a huge steel-tipped arrow punched through his skull. For a wild second, as the man crumpled to the ground, Tony expected to see Clint standing there with a smug smirk on his face. Instead, he saw Anselm racing across the grass, nocking another arrow in his primitive bow as he went.

"Are you well, Sir Tony?" he called out.

Tony almost collapsed in relief. Maybe the dude wasn't so bad after all. "Yeah," he choked out, though his head spun. "Yeah, I'm good."

Anselm nodded once and bolted for the camp to check on the others.

Tony used a tree for support and hauled himself to an unsteady standing position. The rough bark scraped against his palm. That had been really damn close. If it hadn't been for Anselm—

Another human roar cut through the air. Two more ragged, savage men barrelled over the ground, straight for Tony. He opened his mouth to call out for help but his throat was tight with fear—he hadn't been able to manage _one_ of these guys—how the hell was he going to survive _two_?

Tony raised his sword as the Scotsmen charged. Behind them, several knights from Tony's company flew out of the dense trees, cutting toward the bad guys with the grisly axes. Mad John caught up with one but the second man didn't break his stride and kept heading for Tony.

Tony held his ground. His heart was beating so fast, he thought it might give out on him. The Scot raised his axe and Tony ducked and spun at the last second, curling around a tree. The man changed the trajectory of his swing to catch Tony and instead embedded the weapon in the tree's thick trunk. Tony kept whirling and brought his sword up with him, connecting with the man's leather-clad back.

The attacker yowled and staggered. Tony's sword cut into the leather and through to flesh underneath. The wild man yanked his axe out of the tree and Tony jabbed at the Scot's unprotected legs. The man snarled and hopped out of the way, taking another vicious swing with his axe. Tony reared back. The axe's tip skittered across the chainmail covering Tony's chest.

The man wound up for another blow, and this time Tony saw it coming—could see the muscles bulging and guess the direction the axe would go—and realized that this guy was deadly fast, but not as fast as Dommal. Tony sucked in a breath and ducked and lunged, slashing with all his strength. The axe whistled across Tony's face, leaving a shallow slice on his forehead. Tony's blade bit deep into his attacker's arm. The man screamed in agony.

The Scot let his injured arm drop, blood pouring from the wound, and took a wild one-handed swing with his axe. Tony dodged it and brought his sword up, catching the guy in the face with a deep cut. The man howled and Tony rushed him again, not letting him have a second to recover. His sword penetrated the man's neck and Tony jumped back, shaking all over as the man tumbled into the grass. Blood soaked the dirt as the Scot quivered and sputtered.

Tony couldn't breathe. He'd just—he'd _just—_

He heard bellows behind him and whirled, fearing another attacker. Mad John had hacked down two enemies and was battling a third. The other knights Tony had spotted were gone as a fourth wild Scotsman raced towards Mad John. Tony was too far away to help and Mad John was occupied. Horror slammed into him.

"Behind you!" he yelled.

Mad John roared, bringing his sword around fast and hard. His blade cut through the oncoming Scot just in time as the other one John had been battling fell back like a puppet without strings. John yanked his sword out from his second attacker and gave the body a hard kick, sending it sprawling into the leaves and pine needles.

Mad John looked up at Tony, breathing hard. Covered in mud and blood, he was the fiercest thing Tony had ever seen. He stared at Tony for a long second then inclined his head in a slow nod.

"My thanks, Starkl—Sir Stark."

"S–sure," said Tony, still reeling. "No problem."

Mad John ambled away toward the camp, where the crash of battle had stopped. Tony fell to his hands and knees, sucking in oxygen and blinking against the black spots swimming in his vision.

 _Breathe, breathe—oh, God._ He clapped his hands to his chest. Everything tightened with familiar panic, like his ribs had turned into metal bands squeezing his lungs.

It wasn't that he hadn't killed before—he was Iron Man and sometimes killing people, specifically bad guys, was part of his job description. It wasn't new. But that was justified. It was stopping super villains from taking over the world, it was saving civilians from aliens or mercenaries. It was done with bullets and repulsor blasts and explosions. It was part of his job. It was necessary, there was a real saving-innocents-reason behind it.

This…this was some Scottish dudes who wanted him dead simply because he was running with some English knights. There was no rhyme or reason to be murdering each other. There was no grand plan, no apocalypse, villain, or terrorist cell to stop. This was hacking each other up with steel, inches from each other, with no backup, no training, no reinforcements. This was way too real, way too much, way too close, and he couldn't _breathe_.

Hurried footsteps thumped through the underbrush. Tony glanced up as Alric spotted him and veered in his direction.

"Sir Tony!" he called out. "Are you injured?"

Tony gulped in a few more breaths. "N–no, I'm…" He couldn't say _fine_. He was anything but _fine_. He was the freaking farthest away possible thing from _fine_. He couldn't be fine, not _here_ , not _ever,_ not—

Alric's brow creased with worry, but he gave Tony a once over and chose not to comment.

"They have been beaten back," he told Tony instead while Tony wheezed and got his breathing under control. Blood and dirt smeared the knight's face and armour but he wasn't hurt either. "The Scots—what's left of them—have retreated. These ones—" he gestured with his sword to the dead men littering the forest floor. "Slipped past our guards."

Tony exhaled and picked himself up out of the dirt. His knees wobbled and he tried to hide it as he fell into step with Alric. He could barely process how close he'd just come to dying. How he sliced that guy up. His heart fluttered around like a trapped moth and Tony tried to suck in some more breaths to calm himself down. His stomach roiled and without warning, he had to stop to empty it.

Alric stepped out of the way but didn't leave. When Tony had recovered and straightened, the knight didn't look scornful or judging. He laid a gentle hand on Tony's shoulder.

"That was your first true battle, wasn't it, Sir Tony?"

Tony bobbed his head up and down, drawing in more forced deep breaths. _First one like this, anyway._

And there was that all-too-knowing smile that Alric often wore when he was around Tony. "It is never easy," he said. "No battle is ever easy." He gave Tony a reassuring pat and walked towards the campsite. The Englishmen who'd survived the attack staggered through the trees.

* * *

Tony sat with the wounded as Godwin tended to them. He'd gathered a few shallow cuts on his hands and face, though he didn't remember getting them. Godwin pressed a minty-smelling paste onto them then tottered over to help the next victim.

Tony imagined that if he were back in his world, someone would've diagnosed him with shock by now. Pepper would've made him some tea—even though he didn't like tea, she'd've insisted on it—and Rhodey would be giving him a lecture about how going into full-scale battle (without him) with very little skill was the dumbest idea in a long, long line of dumb ideas. Imagining Rhodey here, pacing and ranting, and Pepper, with a worried frown tilting her pretty lips and shoving a teacup into his hands, almost made Tony smile.

But he wasn't in his world. Pepper and Rhodey weren't with him. That almost-smile dissolved, and his eyes prickled and misted. Tony buried the ache that threatened to consume him, forcing himself to swallow down the lump rising in his throat. He couldn't think about it, or them—he could not think for a _second_ about home, or he'd lose it.

Charles curled up on a cot, wailing in agony. He still wore most of his armour and Tony couldn't quite see what was wrong with him, but knew it was bad. There was way too much blood coming from Charles' gut where the knight held his arms. Hugh's face sported a new and nasty slice, and Aber—Abin—Aba—whatever-his-name-was was missing an arm. He was white as cotton and shaking on the mat next to Charles.

Dommal had made it through, Tony was happy to see, though the knight's characteristically cheery face was drawn in despair. He returned with Alric, Mad John, and Anselm from the forest, along with any wounded men they discovered, then left to deal with the dead. Tony had to look away from the sadness cloaking the knights, especially when he realized William hadn't returned from today's fight.

Save for Charles' occasional pain-filled screams, that evening everything was grim and quiet. The loss of their comrades weighed every soldier and knight down, and they all moved slowly as the sun slipped behind the horizon. Mercifully, by late evening, Charles either passed out or died, because his screaming finally stopped.

To Tony's surprise, some smiles and laughter punctuated that night's dinner around the fire. Then again, Tony was the only one who hadn't experienced this sort of battle before—for these guys, this was not exactly an uncommon event. The thought made him feel even heavier. Death and blood were everyday things for these guys; after less than a day, they could be jovial again.

Dommal bumped Tony's arm with his elbow, pulling Tony from his blue thoughts. "Be well, Sir Tony," he said with a smile, though it was not as bright as usual. "They are with God now, at rest. They led lives of honor and died the same. Dwelling on the loss will bring them no peace, nor you."

Tony nodded and chugged some of his ale. Homesickness clawed at his insides, sharper than ever. He struggled to shove it away, to think of anything but Pepper, but didn't think he could anymore. Not today. Tony didn't know when he'd grown so emotional but maybe a few weeks in the wrong century could do that to a person.

Dommal patted Tony's back. "It is never easy," he said, echoing what Alric had said in the forest.

 _No, it's pretty much the farthest thing from easy._ All of it was.

Tony set his leather canteen down in the dirt. "I'm gonna take a quick walk," he told his friend. "Stretch my legs."

"Of course."

Tony left the ring of men crowded around the campfire and wandered out into the darkness. The half-moon overhead spilled its light down over the open meadows and towering trees on either side of Tony. He couldn't quite make out the distant mountains, but he knew they were there as he trudged through the grass.

He had never felt so lost in his life. So far away, cut off, alone… The only time that compared was when he'd been trapped in that damn cave in Afghanistan. That'd been a different kind of hell. Even then, he'd had people looking for him. He'd hatched an escape plan. He'd had tools and Yinsen and a way out. 'Course, most of it went to shit, but at least he'd had _options_.

Tony kicked at chunk of dirt. Here, he had nothing. He was stuck. And Alric and Dommal were nice dudes and all, but they weren't Yinsen. Or his team. They weren't Rhodey or Happy. Or Pepper.

 _God, Pepper..._

Tony covered his face with his hands, hating how thick his beard was against his palms. Hating his situation, hating Lazarus and Scotland and everything he could think of to hate. A cool breeze tugged at his clothes and carried the voices of the other knights, laughing and chatting. Tony squeezed his eyes tight against his fingers.

 _Breathe._ He inhaled as much air as his chest would allow him, shaky as the breath was.

Exhale. Inhale.

He was alive. He was still alive and he had to hold onto that, if nothing else. He couldn't let himself wallow— _wouldn't_ let himself. And he had to trust that wherever, whenever Bruce was, he was fixing this. Tony wasn't going to be stuck here forever, he _had_ to believe that. And damn if it wasn't the cave all over again anyways.

Maybe he was out of options, but maybe his team wasn't. He had to have faith that his friends would pull him out of here.

And Tony had never been one for faith, but at this point, there was nothing else he could do.

* * *

They came again at dawn.

A horn blared, and Tony jumped at the blast, sending his breakfast into the dirt. Panic flared inside of him that he couldn't tamp down.

"They come again!" Hugh screamed, charging across the grass into the campsite. "Ambush!"

From the hills to the north and west came a wave of a dozen Scotsmen on horses. Tony blanched and Dommal grabbed his arm.

"With me!" the kid shouted.

Tony stumbled after his friend, too scared to think straight. And it only got worse when Clerebold sprinted from the opposite direction, hollering about more men approaching from the east. The Scottish riders to the west broke off and circled south, cutting off the only possible exit.

They were trapped.

The sudden activity had the horses in the camp spooked. Six of them took off, while the others nervously stamped about. Tony fumbled to get a hold of the reins of his horse and wondered if they really had a chance at outrunning their attackers. Dommal snagged at his horse's saddlebags and tried to hold the animal steady enough that he could jump on.

"They must have planned this—tested us—thinned out our ranks!" Dommal said breathlessly. "Lying in wait, watching us through the night—why didn't they come then? Why now?" No one replied; Tony barely heard his friend's frightened babbling.

There was a horrible roar of horrible voices—the blare of that deep, chilling horn—and the company was out of time.

Chaos.

Horses screamed and bolted, weapons flew, men on both sides hollered. Tony's horse made a break for it and left Tony in its wake. He yanked the sword he'd used in battle out of the scabbard Anselm had given him and readied his stance. The Scots poured into the area, hooting and blowing their terrible horns. English soldiers and knights rushed forward to meet them and swords and axes and spears clashed and clanged. Arrows whistled overhead.

Tony tried not to get trampled, tried to keep an eye on Dommal, tried to run. They were surrounded and there was nowhere to go. He saw Hugh get cut down, heard Edwin scream. Tony dove out of the way of a stampeding horse with no rider. The stench of fear and blood assaulted him.

He leapt back to his feet, sending a puff of dust into the air. Certain he was definitely, _definitely_ about to die this time but for lack of another option, Tony charged into the fray.

He slashed his sword at a furious Scotsman, catching the burly man square in the chest. With no protective chainmail, the man wailed and tumbled to the ground. Tony narrowly dodged an axe from another attacker and whirled to stave off a third fierce, growling warrior.

Tony's moves were clumsy and every blow he deflected rattled his bones and forced him to fumble to regain his stance. There was no way he could keep this up, not for long. Terror coated his veins and his mouth was desert dry.

Mad John lived up to his name, tearing through the fight like a possessed demon, taking down twice as many foes as the others. For a second, as Dommal burst forth and finished off the man Tony was about to lose to, he thought they might actually have a chance.

Something barrelled into Tony then, slamming him to the ground. The air rushed out of his lungs and his sword tumbled out of his fingers. Struggling for breath, Tony beat uncoordinated fists against the beefy the man who'd tackled him. The Scot yelled at him with snarling, indiscernible words and brought his jagged knife down towards Tony's head.

Tony threw his arms up in defense and then Mad John was there, bellowing like a crazed animal. With one vicious swipe of his sword, he took the head of Tony's attacker clean off. Blood spattered and Tony choked and he didn't have a moment to thank John because then two more Scots were on the burly knight.

Tony scrambled backwards on his hands, shaking and gasping for air. He heard Dommal cry out but couldn't see the kid in the fray. Tony's lost his sword in the dirt and grass and blood so he snatched an axe from a dead Scot's brawny hands.

Tony jumped up and spun—and dropped. Like a full bottle of wine slipped out of someone's grip, straight down, hard. Tony never saw what hit him. Just struggled to stay conscious as the chaos around him slid in and out of focus. His head throbbed.

There was no way they could win this fight, he realized, as his vision edged with black. There were too many Scots and not enough English knights. They couldn't win: not with Clerebold bleeding out over there, and Mad John overtaken, bloody and roaring, and—Tony forgot his name, but the tall blonde, gruff one—dead over there…where was Dommal…Alric, _where was Alric_ …

Somebody yelled for surrender, for mercy. Someone screamed about prisoners. More pain and noise and horses thundering and swords clashing...

Tony fought to stay conscious. He'd get trampled. Had to get up. To move. Run. He got his hands under him and pushed until his chest left the ground. Something wet was on his face. Someone was dying. Something hit him again.

The world slipped sideways and tunneled to black.


	12. Chapter 12

**_[ NATASHA ]_**

 _"I suppose the best way to find out where you come from is to find out where you're going and then work backwards." – The Doctor, Doctor Who_

* * *

Getting into the compound went so smoothly that Natasha wasn't sure if she should've been grateful or extremely concerned. Granted, it was only a storage facility attached to a little-used office wing meant for R&D. Their team was skilled, too—Veer dropped the security guard before an alarm could be raised, a woman name Hattie cut the compound's power, and Garrett had the doors open by the time Natasha and two others circled the place and determined there were no further threats.

Still, as she and the others crept through the dark, bone-white halls, Natasha couldn't help the sense that this was too easy. She'd been on enough missions in her life to trust the crawling sensation under skin.

"Something's up," she murmured.

Garrett led the way, gun at the ready. Natasha went next with a gun of her own.

"I feel it too," he whispered back.

"Think we should abort?"

He shook his head. "Not without the fuses. We'll never get our EMP's off the ground without 'em."

The team moved through the facility methodically, searching room by room for the place where the fuses were kept. A low rumble from outside made them all freeze and hold their breath.

"Thunder?" Natasha mouthed to Garrett. He gave his head a shake.

"Company," he whispered.

Garrett made several quick hand gestures to Jeks, who nodded. He hurried out of the room, leading three team members, leaving Garrett and Natasha alone. He motioned for her to follow him, and together they made for the opposite door.

"Did we trip something?" Natasha murmured. She held her gun up and kept an eye on their six as Garrett peered cautiously around the corner at the end of the hall.

"Shouldn't have."

They raced with quick, quiet footsteps down the next hall, glancing at the doors as they passed. This area contained a bunch of offices—not useful—so they hurried on. A burst of shouts and gunfire sounded in the distance, startling them both.

Garrett cursed and said, "That'll be them then."

"Coals?"

"We gotta kick it and find the—"

They rounded the corner and came face to face with the interrogator from the Coal prison—Garrett's father—and two Pockers. Natasha shot the Pockers in the chest before they could even get their guns up. She intended to shoot Garrett's father as well, until Garrett held his arm up to stop her. He aimed his own gun at his father's gray-haired head.

"I knew it," Garrett's father sneered. He was dressed all in white again, though this time he wore a jacket with the name _E. Vale_ faintly stitched at the top of his left breast pocket.

"Saw this coming, did you?" said Garret icily.

Vale smirked arrogantly. "I had a hunch. After you embarrassed me with your little _display_ at the compound, I wasn't strictly allowed to commandeer too many resources to chase you down."

Garrett snorted.

"But I knew this facility wasn't as well-protected as it ought to have been and that you'd make a play for it, sooner rather than later." He stared Garrett down. "Especially once we exterminated that base full of _muckers_. Tell me, where are the rest?"

Garrett tensed. "Fuck you, Edward."

Vale raised an eyebrow. "Language, _son_."

Natasha glanced behind her. "We better move. You two can catch up later." The longer they lingered, the higher the chances that whoever came with Edward Vale would catch up to him.

"He'll know where to find them," Garrett told Natasha with a significant look.

She nodded and sprang forward, swinging her arm out hard and sharp. Vale threw a few desperate haphazard punches in defense, but she had him on the floor in seconds.

He wasn't hard to wrestle down the hall and into the nearest storage room; while Edward Vale was tall, he was also soft and untrained. He yelped in protest as she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and dragged him across the threshold. The storage room was small but filled with shelves and supplies galore.

Garrett snatched one his father's flailing arms and yanked him to his knees. Natasha shut the door behind them and heard it lock with a satisfying _clink_.

"You have no idea what you're getting yourself into this time, Garrett," Edward spat. "You reckless, idiotic—"

Garrett took a swing and Edward fell to the floor, clutching his face and moaning.

"Garrett," Natasha said in warning. They didn't have time to beat answers out of him. Jeks and the others would only be able to deal with Vale's team so long before reinforcements came and they were all screwed.

Edward cursed as a fresh bruise blossomed on his cheek. Garrett roughly hauled his father to his feet and wrangled Edward into a chair by the back wall. Natasha moved in close, glaring at Vale with the precise look that Tony said "scared the actual shit" out of him.

He swallowed.

"I know exactly what I'm doing," Garrett snapped, jabbing his finger into Edward's chest. "I'm out there fighting to fix this broken world. I'm going to use everything I possibly can to break the Coalition and get humanity back on equal footing."

Vale's attention shifted from Natasha to his son. "You only _think_ you know."

"You had Ems killed." Garrett's voice was colder than a glacier.

Edward's jaw twitched. "I had no choice. It's the way of the world—"

"Exactly what I'm trying to change!" Garrett burst out and advanced on his father again.

"Hey!" Natasha put out her hand to stop him. "We're not here for a revenge mission," she reminded him.

Garrett backed up with a growl. He crossed his arms tight over his chest.

Natasha hefted Edward's gun in her hand, twirling it on her finger. She eyed him. She wanted to suss out his weak points, talk him into giving up information without him even knowing it. But with the gunfire growing closer, she didn't have the luxury to take it slow.

 _Plan B,_ she thought.

Edward's arrogant smirk had returned and she was eager to wipe it off his face. She casually took a few steps towards him and nodded her head over shoulder at Garrett. She jutted her chin in Edward's direction.

"Hold him down."

Garrett circled his father until he was standing behind him, squeezed between him and the back wall.

Edward cast a wary look at his son. "Whatever you think—"

Natasha lunged, cutting him off.

He threw up his hands in defense and surprise, but she wrestled him as easily as she had earlier. Garrett wrapped his muscular arm around his father's neck and kept him in the chair. Natasha pinned Edward's right hand, palm up, onto his thigh. She planted her feet atop his to stop from kicking out and Edward yelped and swore at the pair's man-handling.

"Tell us where the fuses are kept."

He scoffed. "If you think you can fire that, crag—"

"I'm not going to fire it," she told him. "You are."

She pressed the gun into Edward's left hand. It buzzed and clicked, alive and active now that it registered the correct palmprint. Edward blanched as Natasha forced him to shove the tip against his open right hand. Garrett kept his hold on his father, tight and unflinching.

"Last chance," said Natasha. "Where is it?" The gunfire in the building increased in volume again—she and Garrett had probably less than a minute left, if that.

Sweat beaded on Edward's forehead and he sneered. "If you think that the Coalition is going to be brought down by a handful of fuses, you're more delusional than I possibly imagined."

Natasha dug her nails into his skin, forcing his finger down on the trigger. The shot ripped through his hand and into his leg. Edward screamed.

"Where is it, Edward?" Natasha shouted above his pained hollering. She fought to hold his uninjured hand around the gun and readied him to shoot again.

"Room 2342!" he cried out.

Natasha stepped back, releasing him. "Thank you for your cooperation," she said, offering him an icy smile.

Edward gaped at her with slack-jawed shock, clutching his bleeding hand, then let out a string of colorful curses. Garrett tightened his hold on his father, cutting off the words.

A loud bang shook the room, startling all three of them.

"We're out of time," she told Garrett as she made for the door.

It banged open with incredible force, knocking her back. The Pockers outside opened fire; Garrett dove behind the shelves for cover, and Natasha followed. Edward cried out. Laser bullets peppered the back wall, sending white plaster raining down.

Natasha reached up and grabbed a jug of ammonia. Bullets zinged towards their shelf as the Pockers advanced into the room, shooting blindly. Garrett leaned around the shelf and shot back, ducking and popping in and out, in and out. Equipment shrapnel and cleaning supplies tumbled down onto them. Natasha snatched up the nearest bucket and several bottles with loud warning labels, pouring them all in together. The harsh tang of chemicals clouded the space and she held her breath, kicking the bucket out into the open.

She grabbed Garrett's collar and hauled him back behind the shelves just as the Pockers made the mistake of shooting the bucket, reacting to the sudden movement. Natasha rolled, Garrett ducked, and the Pockers screamed as the makeshift bomb ignited. The shelves toppled and Nat held her arms over her head as cleaning supplies crashed down.

Garrett kicked out, shoving the tipped shelf off their backs and they crawled out into the room, dripping with window-washer fluid and something sticky and blue. Two Pockers writhed on the floor, batting flames off their uniforms, another staggered in the doorway, dazed and missing eyebrows. Edward Vale's dead body lay on the floor, riddled with bullet holes and splattered with blood and chemicals. Garrett tossed a regretful glance down at what was left of his father and turned away.

Natasha and Garrett darted forward, slamming past the injured Pockers. They dove into the hallway and took off running. Something on Natasha's arm stung and burned but she didn't stop to inspect it.

They rounded the corner into the main lab. Jeks bolted towards them, blood trailing down his jaw and smeared across his forehead.

"There you are!" he shouted and spun on his heel to head the other way. "They got 'em!" he bellowed over his shoulder. To Garrett and Natasha, he said, "Damn Pockers ran to protect the stuff and we followed and got the chems and fuses!"

Garrett grinned.

They made it out the main doors before another explosion sent them spiralling off their feet. Natasha's ears rang, her body ached, the ground shifted—or the sky? She couldn't tell. Her world spun in a haze, and Jeks was burned and bloody before her—dead—and Garrett screamed and the Pockers were coming and the rebel's beamer lifted off the ground and—

Then Garrett had her arm steady and yanked her up. She stumbled and tried to force her feet to hold her. Finally, his voice came into focus over the ringing in her ears.

"Run! Run! Come on, Red! Go!"

Gunfire erupted behind her, and she couldn't tell if it was meant for them or not, but she didn't look back. The rebel beamer soared past them and disappeared into the night. Her heart sank—she and Garrett were on their own.

Expecting to feel a bullet in her back any second, she fought for breath over the sharp stitch forming under her ribs. Her feet pounded across the ground—perfectly manicured grass, then dirt and sand—and they didn't stop until the burning research facility was just an ominous orange glow in the distance.

Thankfully, she wasn't as hurt as she'd initially thought. Her arms were scraped up, and there were definitely some minor chemical burns on her hands—none as bad as the nasty streak on the back of her left bicep, at least, but her skin throbbed anyway. She was bruised all over from being thrown by the explosions, but she didn't have any new bullet holes, so she counted herself lucky. Garrett was about the same, neck and arms spotted with mild injuries, his clothes a patchwork of stains and holes.

"I hope they made it," Garrett said after a while. They'd stopped running and fallen into a heavy, determined walk. He sighed. "Yumi's gonna be pissed I made them leave me behind."

"She'll understand," said Natasha.

Getting the chemicals and fuses to fill out the EMPs was the most important part of the mission. She could picture Steve frowning at the idea of leaving a teammate behind, but she could see it was a necessity. Besides, the explosion and the beamer's escape had given her and Garrett the seconds they needed to get away from the complex.

She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry about Jeks."

Garrett nodded. "Me too."

Natasha plodded relentlessly forward alongside Garrett. He didn't seem to have a particular destination in mind but she figured he at least had an idea which direction to go. The night air was cool, with a strong breeze blowing at their backs. The sound of their feet marching through the dirt punctuated their heavy breaths. Though she didn't mind the relative silence, talking made it easier to forget about the pain she was in.

"So, Garrett," she said. "What's a guy like you doing in a place like this?"

He chuckled, a tired, bone-weary kind of laugh. "You want my story, Red?"

She nudged her elbow against his. "I'll tell you mine, if you tell me yours."

"You don't have a story—that's not much of an incentive," he teased and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

 _As far as you know_ , she thought and didn't correct him.

Garrett exhaled a long, lead-filled sigh. "It's a tale of woe and misery, I'm afraid."

"It usually is," she replied softly.

He fell quiet again, contemplative, and Natasha let him gather his thoughts. She squeezed her hand against the cramp radiating from her side and rubbed her fingers in slow circles to ease the discomfort. Thunder softly rumbled in the distance.

"It started with my sister," Garrett murmured. He glanced over his shoulder with a frown. "Emily. When I was nine and she was six, we started noticing something kinda sideways about her. Few years after that, we realized she was gonna be a Super."

He gave his head a shake. "All my life, I was told Supers were dangerous and wrong. But she… Ems was anything but, you know? She was funny and bright and completely choice. I didn't get why they never made an exception. Why the Coals still wanted her gone."

Garrett pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, tugging his jacket closer to his body, trying to block out the breeze. It progressed to a sharp wind, tossing their hair; in the distance, thunder rumbled louder.

"She could manipulate water—I thought, _she's not like those other freaks out there_ , you know, killing people. It's just water." He shook his head again and clenched his jaw.

"What happened?" Natasha prodded when the silence stretched. A flash of sheet lightning lit up the landscape, like a cosmic camera taking a photograph.

"At first, she tried to hide it, act all keen and shiny. I tried to help her keep her powers from everyone, including our parents. She was terrified the Coals would take her away and I…I promised her they wouldn't. She'd be a Coal too, just like our parents, I told her. Just like they figured I'd be. And it'd all be fine."

Natasha's heart sank. She remembered Garrett's words to his father in the storage room— _You had Ems killed_. She pushed her hair away from eyes as the wind kicked up the desert dust around them.

"Parents found out, of course. And maybe things woulda been different if Mom hadn't passed—stroke in her sleep when I was thirteen. As it was…I got branded for the Coalition and I tried to find help for Ems." He shoved his hand through his hair and let his arm flop to his side. "Dad didn't care, but I couldn't let them brand her a cragging carnie and drag her away. She was my _sister_. It was Ems. She was just... _Ems._ "

Thunder growled in the gathering clouds overhead. Natasha's eyes flicked across the wide-open space around them—they needed to find some shelter and fast. A flat desert was exactly where she did not want to be in the middle of a thunderstorm. She picked up her pace and Garrett matched her, glancing uneasily at the dark sky above. Another flash of lightning lit up the clouds.

"Anyways, there was no help to be had," he went on, untucking his hands from his jacket. "She was a Super, therefore illegal and psycho-threatening in the eyes of the Coalition. She hadn't done _anything_ bad but that didn't matter—she was a Super, so she _would_ , they said. Only a matter of time. I tried to fight the system, I tried to get her out of the city, I tried every cragging thing I could think of and then some. Got myself arrested a dozen times or so."

His lips twitched at the memory.

"All for nothing. They still took her away, still locked her up. Dear old dad said it was for my own good. And hers." Garrett chuckled bitterly. "Can you cragging believe that? _My_ own good."

The silence between them lengthened again and Natasha didn't push, waiting for Garrett to continue when he was ready. When thunder rolled louder than ever, they both broke into a jog and she hoped he knew where there was shelter nearby.

"We better kick it, Red." His jog turned into a run. "We do not want to be out in this, especially if it's a thundertempest!"

The wind howled around them and the thunder's steady rumble morphed into a chilling roar. The lightning increased in frequency. Garrett kept shooting worried looks over his shoulder like he was expecting something to be following them. The more alarmed he grew, the more Natasha's gut tightened with dread.

"What aren't you telling me?" she shouted over the blasted wind.

Garrett cursed soundly. "It's definitely a thundertempest."

"What does that mean?"

"It means we need to run cragging faster or we're humped!" he hollered.

Natasha chanced a glance back and wished she hadn't.

In the near darkness, it resembled a great wall of fog, swarming over the desert, devouring shrubs and dirt. She'd seen something like it in Saudi Arabia once and knew it was a sandstorm. It was shot through with savage forks of lightning. Thunder like a hundred trees cracking and falling exploded overhead. Fear gripped her chest.

"Tell me you have somewhere we can go!" she called out. The air sizzled with electricity.

He cocked his head and ran faster.

Natasha and Garrett pounded across the desert. Every footstep jarred her and the stitch that had finally started to recede from her ribs came back with a vengeance. Thunder bellowed and lightning shot to the ground in the near distance. Natasha caught sight of dark shapes and Garrett veered towards them. Her heart slammed against her ribs and the wind tore at her clothes.

She dared to look back at the sandstorm and gasped—it bore down on them with terrifying speed. In the next set of lightning bursts, she realized the shadows they were running to was a ruined farmstead—a shoddy house, rusted cars, and a collapsed barn. Her legs burned but she pushed them harder, desperate for any semblance of shelter.

Lightning stabbed down less than fifty feet away, blinding and deafening. Natasha stumbled into Garrett and nearly fell. He grabbed her hand to steady her and she tugged him on.

They scrambled up the rickety steps of the house—dark and long-abandoned, with no door and no windows. They blew past the dust-coated living room and vaulted over the upside-down chairs in the old kitchen. The bedroom only had one window with grimy glass still in it, which offered minor protection from the elements.

Garrett slammed the bedroom door shut as Natasha whipped open the closet. It was wide and roomy and empty, and she dove inside.

She rolled into the corner and pulled her jacket up to cover her head. Garrett closed the closet behind him and tore off his own jacket, sliding to the floor beside her. He curled up close to her and wrapped his head in his coat.

Natasha lost track of time. The house rattled and groaned and more than a few times, she wondered if it was going to come down around them. The wind battered its walls and thunder roared in fury overhead. The sand swarmed the rickety house and poured in every crevice. She could taste it despite tucking her face deep into her jacket. She squeezed her eyes tight. Garrett huddled against her.

Finally, _finally_ , the thunder receded and the wind slowly let up its relentless barrage. Garrett shifted and coughed.

"I think…I think we're okay," he said, his voice muffled.

Natasha poked her eyes out from behind her zipper. A faint sliver of gray light crept in through the uneven cracks around the door. She could make out Garrett's silhouette as he slowly sat up. She followed suit and tendrils of sand sloughed off her limbs.

He crawled across the floor and kicked open the closet door. In the bedroom beyond, dull blue and gray hues hinted at the coming dawn. Garrett shook his head vigorously, sending up a cloud of dust and sand.

Natasha brushed her hands through her hair but figured there was no point trying to rid herself of the dirt here—she was coated in the stuff and so was everything else.

"Now what?" she asked.

Garrett leaned against the closet wall and stretched his legs out. "We take a breather and then figure out how to get home. By now, they'll be out looking for us."

"Will they know _where_ to look?"

"They'll know we're either holed up somewhere to wait out that storm or we're dead," he said wryly.

Natasha smiled a little. "True enough." She scooted across the floor and settled beside him. "So, you never finished your story."

"Glutton for misery, Red?"

She shrugged. "It's not like we have anything else to do." She waited a beat and added, "What happened to Emily?"

"He had her killed," Garrett replied, flatly. She snuck a glance at him. He blinked rapidly and dragged in a few deep breaths before he spoke again.

"He had her killed," he repeated, steadier but aching. "He denied it at the time, but it was his detail that took 'care' of Supers. That was when I finally ran—just got the hell away. With her gone…I figured I had nothing left to lose. Nothing worth staying for. Didn't say goodbye to my old man, just left. Can't ever forgive him."

"I'm sorry," she murmured. She'd never had family to lose—none that she remembered, anyway—but could certainly understand getting away from a place once the ugly truth about it was starkly clear.

 _Then again_ , she thought, _maybe I do have a family to lose after all_. The faces of her teammates flashed through her mind. Natasha shoved away the ugly feeling that she may never be with them again.

Garrett sighed then said, "No, it's…well, it's not fine. But it's in the past. It's long over. And I don't know if I'd have run otherwise, done all this, without…that." He shook his head. "Anyway, that's my tale of tragic woe. That's why I'm out there in the desert, running missions and wrangling rebels and patrolling Dead Zones. It's not right—the classes, the entire system—none of it's right."

"No, it's not," Natasha agreed.

"I just wish I would've figured it out sooner and…gotten Ems out of there." He stood abruptly and stalked out of the closet. "Well. That's the end of the story."

Natasha hopped to her feet and followed him out into the bedroom. It was lighter now, enough that she could see Garrett's face, his forehead caked with red and yellow dirt, blonde hair still thick with sand. It would've been funny if he didn't look so sad and so hollow.

"It's not the end," she offered. "You're still fighting."

His gaze drifted to the window and the ruddy landscape beyond. "Sometimes… I wonder what for. I don't mean _why_ , I mean… we keep losing, and losing, and cragging _losing_. Sometimes I just don't see how we can win, so why keep fighting."

He exhaled shakily and dashed his hand over his eyes.

"But Ems would never let me give up," he added. "So I won't."

He reminded her of Clint in that moment—determined to find a way out of a situation, no matter how dire, no matter how impossible. She wished she could think of something comforting to say.

"Neither would Veer," she tried. "Or, from what I've seen, neither would Yumi or Ophie or pretty much any of the people by your side." She offered him a smile and was rewarded with a tired, but hopeful one in return.

"Right on that, Red," he said.

She bit her lip, hesitant. "Natasha."

Garrett cocked his head. "What's that?"

"My name."

He blinked at her in surprise. "You remember your real name?"

Natasha sighed. "Let's just go with...yeah, I remember. My name's Natasha. And we should probably start thinking about our next move." She cleared her throat to prompt him to go with her on the change of subject. He'd trusted her with his story and she felt obligated to share hers. The problem, of course, was that her story was insane.

He scrunched his brow, even more confused, but she brushed past him to peer out the window, leaving uneven footprints in the dust behind her.

"Keen…" Garrett said slowly.

Outside, the desert landscape was coated with a fresh layer of reddish dirt. Everything was covered in washed-out shades of yellow and orange, that slowly took over the muted blue and gray of dawn. She hadn't been expecting a threat outside but was nonetheless relieved to see none. It looked as quiet and desolate as ever.

"We _do_ have time, you know," he tried. "If you…did want to try to explain." He sounded hopeful, interested, sorry, worried.

She swallowed. She'd earned his trust and the last thing she wanted to do was break it. Natasha dipped her chin to her chest.

"Honestly, Garrett, there's no point," she told him. "I can barely believe it myself, and I'm the one it happened to."

" _What_ happened to you?" he pressed curiously.

 _Time travel_ , she thought. _A mad scientist with an impossible bomb. Aliens and magic and demi-gods and monsters. A whole hell of a lot of monsters. Nothing we were ever trained for._

She faced him and crossed her arms over her chest. "If I said I fell through a rip in the space-time continuum, would you really believe me?" She flashed him a smirk, like she was letting him in on a joke. Though really, it kind of was—a ridiculous, cosmic joke.

He huffed out a laugh. "Right."

She raised her eyebrow at him. "Thought so." Natasha looked out the window again, turning her back on him.

"Wait," he piped up a minute later. "Did you? Are you…? You're not…Are you cragging serious?"

Natasha inhaled to answer him, though she didn't know what to say, when the sound of chopper blades cut the distant air. She stepped away from the window.

"Coals?" she murmured. Her heart rate spiked. If it was, they were utterly screwed. There was nowhere to hide and nowhere to run.

"No," Garrett breathed. "Those are _ours_."

She shot him a skeptical look. "How can you possibly tell?"

He smirked in return. "Coals with all their fancy tech? Copters are way quieter—practically hover, with electric engines and thin, shielded blades. We wouldn't hear 'em 'till they were landing on top of us."

Natasha raised her eyebrow. "Then won't they hear _ours_?"

His smirk unfolded into his signature grin. "Not if we hurry...Natasha."


	13. Chapter 13

_A/n: Merry Christmas everyone! I hope you are all having wonderful holidays. :D Apologies this is getting posted so late - I'm in the middle of surviving copious family visits/visiting. XD Hopefully Friday's chapter will go up quicker! ;D In the meantime, here's some more Tony..._

* * *

 **[ TONY ]**

 _Donnie: "Where did you come from?"  
Frank: "Do you believe in time travel?" _

_– Donnie Darko_

* * *

The first time Tony woke, his head bumped painfully against something hard. He moaned, and it took longer than it should've for him to put together that the sensation meant he was moving. A rumbling noise filled his ears. He was in a wagon, or something like one, going who-knew-where.

He hurt everywhere and his head pounded like the Hulk was battering his skull over and over. He thought he heard a voice murmuring and tried to open his eyes. He caught a glimpse of dust and darkness, maybe a shadowed figure, a face, but the effort was too much. He passed out again.

* * *

The second time went a little better. Tony didn't know how much time had passed, but now the darkness was more thorough; night must have fallen. He wasn't moving anymore, or the wagon wasn't. Or maybe he wasn't in a wagon anymore, because it didn't feel like he was lying on wood. Straw and something harder underneath—stone, maybe? He was too fuzzy to tell just yet, but his body ached worse than before and he cried out involuntarily when he tried to move.

"Sir Tony?" someone whispered.

Tony forced his eyes open. The act made his head swim, and he fought off the sharp wave of nausea that burned in his throat. He breathed in through his nose and tried to focus on taking stock of the situation.

Above him was more darkness—a roof, maybe more stone. There wasn't a limb on his body that wasn't bruised and battered. An invisible fist still thumped his head from the inside. And something scratchy held his wrists together. Cold fear trickled into his gut.

"Sir Tony?" the voice tried again, louder this time. It sounded like Alric.

"Wh…" Tony started. He fought against his sandpaper throat and a tongue too big and sluggish to form words. How long had he been out?

"We are prisoners of war," Alric told him, guessing Tony's unspoken question. "At least, I believe we are."

Tony slowly turned his head to the side. He waited for the dizziness to subside and his view to stabilize. He could barely see Alric—only a hint of moonlight shone into the cramped room through a slit high in the wall. It lent the clarity to differ between the shadow of the room's walls and the shadow of Alric's sitting-up silhouette.

"What…happened?" Tony managed. He remembered a lot of blood and screaming. And getting smashed in the head.

"Most were killed," said Alric. His voice was quiet and tearing at the seams. "The rest taken prisoner."

That trickle of fear turned into a flood, filling Tony's torso and shooting through every vein.

"Everyone?" he asked. He hauled in a shaky breath.

Alric's voice was unsteady as he softly replied, "Yes. We were captured and…I know not what they intend to do with us next. They split us apart—only the three of us are here in this cell."

"Three?"

"You and I," Alric said emotionally. "And Anselm. But I don't believe he shall survive the night."

He was supposed to be glad that he'd survived, that his friend had made it, but what about the others? What about Dommal? And losing that many men? Being prisoners? Tony's gut turned over. It was pretty grim, to say the least. He pressed his bound hands to his forehead, struggling not to let hopelessness consume him.

Tony let himself wallow for a few minutes about the utterly craptastic situation he'd found himself in before he got his feet and tried to work out a way to escape their cell. The whole situation crept under his skin and brought back vivid memories of his time in that cave in Afghanistan, sharp and painful. He'd done the prisoner thing—damned if he was going to do it again.

 _God, what I wouldn't give for a suit right now. Hell, a_ piece _of a suit would be good_. He inhaled deep and pressed his fingernails into his palms. He kinda regretted following Bruce's orders right about now.

The room was small, and every wall was good stone—no sizeable flaws to exploit. The window was high up, even if he stood on someone else's shoulders to reach it, and too tiny for Tony to get his head through anyway. He thought about drawing up a message of some description and tossing it out the window, but he didn't exactly have the materials to do so. Even then, the only ones likely to find it were more Scots.

He stepped over Anselm's unmoving form to inspect the door. It was thick, heavy wood with a small barred window near the top and a narrow slit at the base to push food through. Tony ran his hands over every nook and cranny, searching for something he could use, for _anything_ but came up empty. Tony frowned—the hinges were on the outside and the door was sturdy and void of holes or rotten spots.

Tony sighed through his nose and settled back down onto his meagre, uncomfortable cot. He fought off another wave of dizziness. He wasn't going to admit it was hopeless yet, but it was certainly feeling that way. He'd figure a way out of this, though. He had to.

He gingerly reached up to try to inspect his head. Dried blood, sweat, and grime crusted his hair. Though he'd been hit damn solidly, he didn't think much of the blood was his. Certainly had a giant, tender goose egg he could brushed against with the inside of his wrists, but nothing too major, thankfully.

Tony rested his bound hands in his lap. He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes, determination and grief and anger and homesickness swelling and clashing in his chest. He was so sick of this medieval crap. He just wanted to _go home._

"I am sorry, Sir Tony," said Alric softly. "It would seem that we are at the mercy of our captors for the time being."

"Yeah, about that."

Tony opened his eyes and forced himself to focus on logic instead of emotion, to shove everything else away. Moonlight slowly changed to dawn, the light sifting through their tiny window. Tony kept his gaze turned away from Anselm's still body on the floor.

"What do they want with us? What are they going to do to us?"

Alric fell quiet for a few long, unsettling moments. "It varies from clan to clan."

"Ballpark it."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sorry. I mean, just…guess. Give me an idea." Tony steeled himself for whatever his friend was about to reveal.

"Death, most likely," the knight answered. He spoke quietly as if he was concerned about waking Anselm. Tony wondered if he was even still alive but couldn't bring himself to check. "Teaching the English usurpers a lesson and so forth. Humiliation and torture. Perhaps they may require us as slaves to aid them—building structures, digging trenches, menial tasks, and the like."

 _Perfect_. Tony closed his eyes again.

For a couple hours, Tony and Alric didn't speak much, aside from idle, pointless small talk to puncture the silent room and keep them sane. When the sun was higher in the sky, Tony could see more detail in their little cell. Alric was as filthy-looking as Tony felt, covered in dirt, dried blood, and who-knew-what-else. Unmoving on the floor, Anselm's skin was gray, mottled with bruises and blood. He didn't move a muscle in the several minutes Tony stared at him. The longer he looked, the more he was sure the guy was dead.

Tony turned away, bile rising in his throat. His mouth was horribly dry and his stomach gave an ungainly rumble. How many hours since they'd been captured? Would they give them food and water, or force them to starve?

The hours dragged on. Tony restlessly got up to pace, just for something to do, but there wasn't much floor to move on. He laid down on the scratchy cot to try to sleep, but there was no point. He wasn't tired and his head still hurt like hell. Alric stood to stretch his legs for a bit and Tony took the floor so Alric could lay on the cot. Maybe mid-afternoon or so, Alric finally reached for a topic that was more substantial.

"Sir Tony?" said Alric, dragging Tony from his frustrated thoughts. "Since it might be helpful in passing the time, perhaps we could speak about who you are and how you came to be here."

Tony snorted. He had no idea where to start.

"And if I may, while this may sound a strange a request, please understand I request this for a reason: tell me your story at my side so that I may lay my hand across your arm."

Tony stared. _Okaaay…_

Alric awkwardly settled onto the cold ground beside Tony. Like he had back in the forest that day, the knight pushed aside Tony's sleeve and placed his hands on Tony's arm, as best as he could with his wrists tied together.

Alric nodded. "Begin."

Tony still had no idea where to start, but he said what he could. At first, he tried to keep it simple—he talked slowly, working hard to speak in Thor-esque tones and skirt the full truth. After a little while, he gave up. He and Alric were probably going to die or Tony was going to disappear when his team found him and took him back to the future, so what did he have to lose? They were prisoners in a Scottish camp—Alric was in no position to order an execution for Tony for being too crazy, nor would the Scots care if Alric ended up ranting about mechanical suits and aliens.

So Tony spilled. He told Alric about being from the future. About Hector Lazarus and his wacky bomb, how after it went off, Tony found himself trapped in medieval Scotland. About his team of super-friends and how he was stranded here until those friends in another time, somewhere far in the future, could devise a way to get him home.

Alric's features rippled with shock. The place where the knight's hands rested on Tony grew hot, almost uncomfortably so, the entire time Tony spoke. When he had finished, Alric let go and Tony's skin was left feeling prickly and too cool.

"I believe you," the knight whispered, sounding surprised by his own words.

"What? You can't—seriously?"

Alric shook his head. "You shared your story, Sir Tony, and 'tis only fair I share mine." He held up his bound hands. "I can sense truth from lies with my touch. I have had this ability since I can remember—perhaps from birth. I know not how or why, only that it is. It has never failed me."

 _So that's how he knew I meant what I said back in the woods_ , Tony thought with a jolt. The information probably should have surprised him. After experiencing black holes in space, demi-gods, actual aliens, Extremis-infused soldiers, and freaking time travel, actual superpowers shouldn't didn't faze him.

 _Huh. An 'enhanced' of yore. Whodathunk?_

"While…while I cannot fathom much of what you spoke, you are, impossibly, speaking true." Alric shook his head again in utter disbelief. He let out a startled chuckle. "No wonder you know nothing of swords and horses. Is the world so very different from where you hail?"

Tony thought about his lab, JARVIS, his suits, S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers. "You have no idea, pal."

He couldn't stop a burst of laughter from spilling forth. Not only because of how insane this all had to be for Alric, but also because of how insane the _entire_ _thing_ really was, and because he was honestly out of other emotions to feel. In fact, once the laughter started, he couldn't seem to stop, and then Alric was laughing too in some sort of contagious insanity neither of them could control.

The laughter subsided and they caught their breath when a harsh banging sounded on their cell door. Tony admitted he was possibly delirious and spent, but after the rollercoaster that had been the past several hours, let alone weeks, he couldn't help himself.

"What the hell do you want?" he shouted.

A round of indiscernible yells followed and Tony rolled his eyes.

He was exhausted. Hungry, thirsty. Tired of this, tired of this life and crap, tired of fucking everything. So what if they knocked him around for mouthing off? He couldn't bring himself to care, especially if they were about to kill him. They could march him to their little planned execution but they couldn't make him play nice about it.

"Yeah, come in here and say that to my face," he shot back.

"Sir Tony," Alric said in warning, the mirth from a few seconds ago dissolving fast.

And that's when Tony had a great, totally reckless, idiotic idea.

There was another round of demands and barks from the men outside their door, not enough of it in English for Tony to understand.

"Your mother is a hamster!" Tony called out and giggled. It was so stupid.

"Tony!" Alric hissed.

"No, listen," said the genius in a hasty undertone. "I'm going to piss them off and you be ready to jump them when they open the door." Loudly to their captors, Tony hollered, "And your father smells of elderberries!"

Alric stared, his expression a blend of incredulity and amusement.

"Okay, I know, lamest insults ever. I'm too tired—all I can think of is _Monty Python_."

"Bastard Scottish pigs!" Alric yelled.

Tony raised his eyebrows. "Nice one."

"What's goin' on here?" A deep voice sounded at the door, speaking muddled-sounding English.

"Ah, finally," said Tony as he climbed to his feet and readied his stance. "Someone who speaks God's mother tongue!" He shot a wink at his knight friend while the Scotsmen outside cursed.

Alric climbed to his feet. "Your intention to anger them is certainly…"

"Working?"

"Cease and desist!" hollered the English-speaking one, who Tony was dubbing the Leader. "Our good lady won't tolerate ye insolence, even in these dungeons."

"Oh, I know exactly how _good_ your lady is," said Tony, with enough innuendo in his voice to give them exactly the wrong impression. The men roared.

"One might say that." Alric readied himself to tackle the Scots.

Tony grinned and the door swung open.

He and Alric flew into action, barrelling into the men standing just outside their cell. One of the guards charged while the others stayed back. Tony dove forward and caught a meaty fist to the jaw. He tripped over Anselm's dead body, narrowly avoiding another flying fist. He crashed into one of the guard's legs and spun himself to kick out, but another Scot dropped atop Tony to pin him down.

Tony lost sight of Alric and was smacked hard enough in the head to put sparks exploding across his vision. When his eyes cleared, he saw his friend similarly pinned down. Tony groaned. So much for escaping.

"Ye diseased ingrates," one of the men above Tony—Leader—growled. He cuffed Tony in the head again. Tony gasped in pain. "I'll teach ye some respect!"

The other men hauled Tony to his feet and dragged him down the grimy hallway. From other cells came random shouts and Tony thought he heard Dommal's voice before the Scots shoved Tony up the stairs and out a narrow doorway. He blinked against the brilliant sunlight, stumbling over the rough ground. They dragged him forward. Once his eyes adjusted, he saw where they were leading him: the stocks.

"Oh for— _shit_."

"Enough!" Leader barked, jabbing his fist into Tony's back.

Together with three of his men, they wrestled Tony up onto the small platform and forced his head down into a carved out section of a wooden board. They undid the bindings on his wrists and positioned his arms into two smaller curves on either side of his head. One of the Scots slammed the top piece of the board into place over Tony's neck and attached a lock. They stepped back to admire their work now that their prisoner was secure.

"We'll speak with m'Lady Brae about what to do with the likes o' you," said Leader with a malicious sneer.

"Ye got 'im good there, Myhll!"

The other men lobbed taunts and insults at Tony with a mix of English and what Tony assumed was ancient Scottish or Gaelic. They marched back to the castle, laughing and cat-calling over their shoulders.

Tony let his head hang. _Freaking medieval bastards._

* * *

 _A/n: So, what Tony was put in is actually called "the pillory." Stocks are actually where a person is in a sitting position and have their feet locked up. Most people, however, think of the stocks as the standing one, and I figure Tony wouldn't know the difference, so he referred to the pillory as "the stocks." Secondly, the pillory was mostly used for public humiliation on minor crimes, and people were only in them for a few hours at most. I could not find any description of what it's like to be in the stocks/pillory, so what follows in this fic is an imaginative guess. And Tony wildly (understandably) exaggerating how long he actually is in there. ;)_


	14. Chapter 14

**[ NATASHA ]**

 _Sarah Connor: "We're here to stop the end of the world."_

 _Detective O'Brien: "I can work with that."_

 _– Terminator: Genisys_

* * *

It wasn't until late at night, a few days later, that Garrett came by her room. Edie was already fast asleep and stirred only slightly at the knock.

"Something wrong?" Natasha whispered when she opened the door to see him standing there.

"No, I was just—Red—Natasha—can we talk a minute?"

She nodded and stepped out of her room, gently closing the door behind her. She hadn't seen much of him since they'd been rescued following the mission to get the fuses; they'd both been tended to in medical, and her chemical burn was healing nicely. Whatever creams they'd used were damn near magic—already she only had a hint left on her hands.

She knew he'd been busy getting the EMPs prepared, while she'd spent most of her time resting, reading, or working out in the bunker's small gym. She'd been back to a holding pattern, waiting for something to happen. And there was still no more word from Bruce.

Garrett led her through the dingy halls until they reached one of the briefing rooms usually reserved for high-priority missions. Natasha settled into an old blue chair while Garrett grabbed a plastic orange one. He spun it around to sit on it backwards and folded his arms on top.

"Seriously, is everything okay?" Natasha asked.

His forehead was creased with worry but not the weighty, world-weary kind she usually saw on him. This was more like he'd spent hours convincing himself of something and still didn't believe it, like the look Thor wore after Manhattan.

Garrett opened and closed his mouth a few times before he blurted in a rush, "Were you true back there?" At her questioning look, he added, "After the thundertempest?"

 _Tread carefully, Natasha_ , she thought. She liked him and he trusted her and she was loath to lose that, especially if he thought she was truly crazy.

His lips quirked at the corners. "Did you really fall through the space-time continuum?"

He said it like it was still a fun joke, but there was a hint of fear in his eyes that she would say it was true. His position on the chair was relaxed yet she could read the tension prickling his every muscle. Hell, the fact that he'd come to her late at night three days later told him the idea was eating at him, whether he wanted it to or not.

She watched him, considering, then said, "Yes."

Garrett nodded slowly and tugged his fingers through his hair. "Keen. Keen, keen…um. I…keen." He fumbled for words, sneaking glances at her that ranged from surprised to confused to awe and back again. "Um…so…"

Natasha leaned forward and she told him what she could risk: she was from the year 2012, part of an elite team of people working to save the world from impossible threats. That one of those threats and his stupid magic bomb had launched her into this insane, post-apocalyptic world that made so little sense to her.

"So you're a Super?"

Natasha lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Not exactly. But some of my teammates are."

"That's why you were unclassified! I knew from the sec we peeped you, you were different. Never expected this, though—this is…crazy sideways. Cragging, _cragging_ sideways."

"Tell me about it," murmured Natasha. "I'm the one living it."

"So what do you do? How do you…or are you stuck…shit, I don't even know what to ask."

"I don't know." The answer was a heavy rock in her stomach. The longer she went without a second contact from Bruce, the more worry clawed at her ribs. She refused to give into it but it was hard not to.

Garrett fell quiet. He kept inhaling to say something then changing his mind. Twice he got up to pace, looked at Natasha, then sat back down. She sat still and silent, letting him work through his jumbled thoughts.

"I haven't told," he finally said. "And I won't, if you don't want me to. Everybody thinks you're bleached anyways, so we can stick with that."

"I think that'd be the best idea."

"Could you tell me—I mean, if you're from—well, shit." Garrett laughed. "You don't know a thing, do you know? No wonder you needed the books and the…"

Natasha smiled a little. "Yeah."

He pinned her with his blue-eyed stare. "How are you even functioning?"

She hesitated. "Honestly? One day at a time."

* * *

By the end of that week, Natasha was a cog in an already well-oiled machine. She went out on supply runs with Veer and cleaned floors in the Cantina with Ophie. She helped Edie and Vika reorganize the library when Hattie and a scav crew came back with a huge box of dusty, water-damaged books. She even went out on two more minor missions with Garrett to gather more pieces for the engineers to finish up the EMPs.

True to his word, he never mentioned that he knew her real story. Nothing changed, except his looks to her were maybe a little softer than before. It wasn't quite pity—something closer to empathy. It should have chafed, but she welcomed it instead. The days were easier, somehow, with someone knowing her secret.

And as long as she kept herself busy, it left little time for thinking. Thinking made her lonely, made her miss her team. As much as she appreciated the band of rebels she was getting to know in this new world, she couldn't help curling up in her bed at night and wishing she could reach out and touch Clint. She missed waking up to the sound of Tony clanking around the Tower with some new gadget he stayed up until dawn making. She missed Thor's breakfasts and Bruce's suppers and sparring in the gym with Steve.

 _Doing_ kept her from dwelling too heavily on the realities of this world, too. She was a little too used to running for her life, so blasting away from a group of patrolling Coals didn't phase her. Helping Veer, bleeding from the leg, onto a transpo as they made off with some tech was like any number of S.H.I.E.L.D. missions she'd been on. That part wasn't the problem.

It was travelling past Dead Zones, brimming with crazed and furious Scuds that made her gut clench with horror all over again. It was soaring over burnt landscapes, cities that were nothing more than empty ruins. Flying over massive craters and shelled-out homes. It was infiltrating a Coal building, dressed all in white, pretending to be as ignorant and cold as they were.

* * *

That was roughest, the first time the rebels dressed her in those starched white Coal clothes.

"Lots of people don't wear white in the Coal capitals," explained Ophie as Natasha got changed behind a patterned screen. "But the government officials all do. They're obsessed with the craggin' color."

"That why all the interior of the…" Natasha searched for the right word.

"Prison?" Ophie supplied. "Yeah. That's why everything in there's white. Government building. They think it means purity and shit. That's why the Coal brands are white, too."

"Speaking of," Natasha said, coming out, fully dressed in a white power suit, complete with shiny white high-heeled boots. "I'm gonna need one of those." She shoved up her sleeve and waved her bare wrist.

Ophie nodded. "Next thing on the list."

Yumi, the one with the steadiest hand in the group, sat Natasha down in the main meeting room with a bottle of paint.

"It won't hold up under close scrutiny but it won't flake off easily either," she explained as she delicately painted a thick white circlet onto Natasha's wrist. "As long as you don't get it wet, it won't smudge."

By the time she was done, her circlet looked exactly like Garrett's. Next up in the preparation for Natasha's mission into the city was a set of glasses that faked a retina scan and threw off facial recognition. They'd been stolen and locked up in a lead lined case for months, waiting for a mission such as this.

Last was the restored beamer, painted to mimic a Coal Inspector's vehicle. Garrett went over the map a fourth and sixth and twelfth time—she'd cross the desert, skirt the ruins of Kimba, and fly on to the city of Whyalla.

"She's got it," Yumi said, grasping Garrett's arm and dragging him away from the beamer's side. "Relax."

Natasha's lips quirked up. "Trust me," she said. "I've been through much worse."

Garrett's expression was a mix of understanding and curiosity. Natasha tossed him a wink and put her foot down on the accelerator. The beamer shot out of the hanger and she sped over the red desert.

* * *

No one looked at her twice when she blazed into Whyalla. She slowed the beamer down and wove gently through the streets, as if she were in no big hurry. A few citizens bustled out of her way, and Natasha was struck by the differences between this place and the one she'd left behind an hour ago.

Everything was stark and clean. Sharp, modern lines contrasted with smooth, white facades, big doors, and tons of windows. The people were groomed, immaculate, standing up straight and walking in straight lines and blissfully ignorant and unburdened. Lush, green lawn after perfectly manicured lawn.

Natasha clenched her jaw, thinking of the bunker, buried deep in the mountains, full of broken people, scraping by, and fighting every day for something better. Her fingers tightened on the steering rods and she shoved her emotions away.

 _Focus, Natasha_.

She wove down the streets towards the massive glass and metal monstrosity that was her destination. Curiously, the city didn't grow any denser—it was still spacious and lush and so excruciatingly clean, it made her skin itch. She was tempted to dig through the beamer to find a scrap of garbage and toss it on the ground just to make the place look more real.

Natasha pulled the beamer to a graceful stop in front of Zuiver Technologies Inc. and disembarked. A couple men in suits glanced at her with surprise and concern, then hustled away, with hurried conversation as Natasha adjusted her glasses. Sunlight poured down, making the building hard to look at, but she held her head high and stalked forward.

It was easy to slip into the persona she needed. Her flat, no-nonsense manner had the receptionist at the front desk scrambling in seconds. Natasha had all the right credentials and looked the part. She trailed behind the harried receptionist who was none too pleased by this supposed inspection of the server room.

"We weren't supposed to have one for another week," the receptionist mumbled, twisting her hands in front of her.

The borrowed boots made a soft thud with each footstep. "We had a scheduling miscommunication," said Natasha, her voice cutting and cold like a blade of ice. "But I was assured that my visit would not be a problem."

"It's not, no, of course it's not!" the woman babbled and picked up the pace.

Natasha let out a huff, and the receptionist's cheeks flushed.

Natasha's eyes roamed the halls, taking in as much detail as possible, though there wasn't much. Like the Coal prison, everything was just an overwhelming amount of white. At least they'd accented this place with colorful if meaningless art installations or fake potted plants—things that made Natasha relax inadvertently. It was oddly reassuring and familiar. She took note of the route they took, carefully keeping track of distance, doorways, conference rooms—how far they'd have to run, places to take cover, locations of stairs or turbolifts.

The Coals weren't stupid. Though absolutely every facet of their lives ran on tech, they didn't have one giant server room connecting everything to everything—that would've made their world far too easy to crush. But what they did have was a building in the sparkling nexus of downtown of Whyalla, with servers that did connect to _some_ things. Enough things.

Zuiver Tech was situated near a major power station. One giant EMP in the middle of this place could effectively blow out this city's entire system and leave them crippled. And if this was happening in several cities all at once across New Australia? Then Coals would be down for the count, unable to communicate, while the rebels rallied.

At least, that was the plan.

"This is it," said the receptionist. She pressed her hand to the glowing panel beside the door. It flickered and hummed then the door slid away.

Natasha followed the woman inside. Nat surveyed the room, surprised at how small it was. It couldn't have been much larger than her bedroom at the Tower. There were four computer consoles with holoscreens near the door. Beyond that, about half a dozen thin shelves lined with what Natasha assumed must be the servers—devices akin to sleek, closed laptops from her time, stacked ten or so high and ten or so wide per shelf. She'd expected something much more expansive, considering those machines ran the inner workings of more than a dozen buildings and a vast multitude of systems.

 _What Tony wouldn't give to get his hands on those_ , she thought. She pictured him rushing about the room in awe, then nabbing one of those skinny machines and ripping it apart on the floor right then and there to explore its inner workings.

"Is this satisfactory?" the receptionist asked, gesturing to the room and landing her hands on her hips. She switched to nervously clutching her fingers in front of her.

There was plenty of room to set off the EMP, Nat decided. The place wasn't too much of a maze and they only needed a handprint to get in. Yes, this would do nicely.

"It could be cleaner," Natasha said. She cut an irritated glance at the receptionist and was rewarded with the other woman's mouth opening in shock.

She snapped her mouth shut and pasted on an insincere smile. "We'll get someone on that right away."

"I should hope so." Natasha followed the woman out of the room. "The Coalition has extraordinary standards that are visibly not being met."

"Of course," the woman sniffed.

Natasha wanted to laugh. As she made for the large glass and steel double doors to the place, she distinctly heard the woman muttering something about "corporate gov snobs." It was bizarrely comforting that, even here, there was still much-hated bureaucracy. As long as there was humanity, she imagined, that would never change.

She casually side-stepped the man mopping the floors, his wrist tattooed blue.

 _I'm surprised they don't have robots to do that for them_ , Natasha thought.

Her boot slid on the freshly wet floor and Natasha gasped a little as her ankle rolled.

"Watch it!" shouted the janitor.

Though Natasha recovered her balance, the overzealously helpful man lunged out to steady her. Instead, his hands collided with her and though she spun to stop them both from falling, his flailing sent her crashing into him and they both fell to the floor, taking the mop bucket down with them.

"What the cragging hell, Kex!" the receptionist tore across the lobby in a towering fury.

Kex the janitor babbled fierce apologies and scrambled to help Natasha to her feet.

She batted him away and picked herself out of the suds, glaring daggers. "When I mentioned this office should be cleaner, I did not mean right this second."

The receptionist flushed. "My apologies, Madame Inspector, my deepest, deepest, sincerest apologies. If you need to speak to my supervisor or his or—or any management, I—I—"

Natasha threw her hand up to stem the flow of words. "You will both be dealt with accordingly. I have another appointment to tend to but do not doubt: I will be back." She laced her voice with seething contempt—everything was beneath her, they'd ruined her day, her clothes, and someone would _pay_ …

The receptionist's complexion paled and Kex clutched the mop handle, looking like he was about to be sick. Natasha was about to turn on her heel and march out in a huff when the other woman scrunched her brow.

"Wait…" she said. Her nervousness dissipated.

Natasha realized what was wrong the second the receptionist did.

 _As long as you don't get it wet, it won't smudge._

The circlet bled white lines down Natasha's forearm.

The receptionist cried out and dashed for her desk. Kex yelped and lunged. Natasha swung her arm at him and her fist cracked him across the jaw. She whirled and bolted for the doors. Blaring klaxon alarms sounded. A startled man letting himself into the building looked up and Natasha shouldered past him just as she heard electronic locks seal the other half of the entrance's double doors.

"Stop her!" the receptionist screamed.

Natasha dove into her waiting beamer. Half a dozen Pockers streamed through the lobby after her, carelessly tossing aside the poor man at the door and Kex, who'd just regained his footing. They stumbled over the wet floor, two of them going down in a sprawling heap.

The beamer hummed to life. The first Pocker out the door took aim. The shot slammed into the beamer's side, sending blue electricity crackling over the hull. Natasha's teeth buzzed and the hair on her arm shivered with static as the beamer shuddered but didn't stop. She punched down the accelerator.

The next shot sailed past her head and she instinctively wrenched the controls away from it. The charge landed in the street, snapping uselessly. She tore around the corner and the next, putting some distance between her and the Pockers chasing her.

She knew what would happen if she was caught—she'd done that once already. She screamed at a group of citizens idly crossing the road.

"Get out! Move!"

They scattered like startled rabbits. Pocker beamers with wailing sirens soared around the corner in her wake. They hollered at her but she couldn't make out their words. Then she realized they weren't yelling at her, but at the people on their lawns and on the streets, looking up at the commotion. They repeated it every few seconds. Whatever the Pockers said, it wasn't good.

The people on the streets yelled at her. The people on the lawns went from surprised to angry. One man even ran forward to try and throw something at her, though she was too fast for him to hit. Natasha gunned her engines. Her heart pounded in her throat.

She had to shake the Pockers. She couldn't lead them to the rebel outpost, no matter what.

Natasha took a breath, thinking about the map she'd studied at the bunker. She slammed on the beamer's brakes and jerked the controls so hard they cracked against the dash. The beamer swung in a screaming arch, nearly tipping and throwing her out. She gritted her teeth against the force trying to drive her out of her seat. The beamer held and stabilized.

The Pockers roared towards her. She slammed her beamer forward. The Pockers blasted past her and panicked. Two of their beamers whipped around to follow her and crashed into each other. One shot forward, one slammed on his brakes and narrowly avoided disaster. Natasha roared back down the street, the way she'd come.

She retraced her path of flight for couple blocks, before turning sharply and taking a new direction. She estimated she had only a half a minute before the Pockers were on her again.

A young man, maybe sixteen or so, shot out in the road, waving his arms at her. Natasha gasped and slammed the brakes, then yanked the steering rods sharply to avoid hitting him.

"Take me with you!" he screeched at her. "Get me out—"

She was too far away to hear the rest. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see him tackled to the street, screaming. Natasha punched the beamer back up to a high speed. There was nothing she could do for him.

She blasted past the shining city's limits and was once again out in the expanse of red desert. Another quick glance over her shoulder told her that the Pockers had regrouped, but at least she had some serious distance on them. Not enough to outrun them to the base, but certainly enough to get them off her tail. Wind whipped her hair in a tangle around her head.

The map she'd studied had been sparse on the details about the desert, but out of habit, she'd made note of anything near the city, just in case things went south. Heading sharply north, she flew over the ground, kicking up dust as she went. The Pockers followed her the entire time. Shots periodically rang out through the air and peppered the dirt in her wake. Natasha pushed the beamer nearly to its breaking point.

Finally, on the horizon, dark shapes emerged from the wavering haze of heat like mirages. Natasha smiled grimly. Port Augusta. Or rather, what was left of it.

The shelled-out, burnt remains of a once-beautiful city loomed before her. Even though she already knew from the map that it was part of a Dead Zone, it still sent chills of shock rolling through her. She'd been here on a mission once—with Clint, in another time, another century. She still remembered walking along Commercial Street, holding his hand as he tried to get chocolate ice cream on her nose.

Now it was a dirty, ugly shell of a place, sooty and sand-blasted with jagged, crumbling buildings. Craters and burnt out cars, the stale smell of decay on the wind. She drove ever closer and stole another look back at her pursuers. Was it her imagination, or were they backing off? Nat didn't question it, pushing her beamer over the scorched, dead land and blazing into a hollowed-out city.


	15. Chapter 15

_A/n: This chapter contains spoilers for Game of Thrones seasons 1 and 2. Because of the timeframe in which this story originally takes place, the Avengers have not yet watched season 3. ;)_

 _(Also, sorry this is late! Been spending time with family over the holidays. I hope you all are having a wonderful holidays or surviving being back at work/school!)_

* * *

 **[ TONY ]**

 _"Was I altering the 'space-time continuum,' or whatever they called it in time-travel movies, just by existing right now? Perhaps I'd accidentally kill a mosquito that might have given some famous person a disease that killed them?" – J.R. Rain, Moon Bayou_

* * *

Tony had never taken the time to imagine what the stocks would be like. Now that he was spending some quality time in one, he could say it was damn unpleasant.

For starters, his back ached, and he couldn't shift to a better position or otherwise relieve it. His neck hurt, and there was no way to wiggle out of the boards holding him captive. He was stuck fast. He shimmied his arms forward to get his weight off his forearms, but there wasn't a way to stand that didn't hurt after a few minutes. Tony let out an aggravated growl.

The sun beat down on him, and his exposed skin started to burn. His legs grew tired, but sinking to his knees to relieve them only made his neck and arms hurt worse. As if that wasn't bad enough, passersby of all ages and ranks gathered to jeer at him or even throw food (and worse, judging by the consistency and…smell). There was no way to avoid it; Tony simply had to stand there and take it.

He had no idea how he was going to last the day—or longer, if that was their intention. He wondered if they'd stuffed Alric into one of these somewhere else, if the knight would have to wait his turn in these ones, or if they were doing something worse to him. Tony closed his eyes. He recited formulas in his head so he'd stop focusing on the pain in his body or the rotten vegetables spattering beside his ear.

Or whatever might be going on back inside the Scottish castle's prison.

* * *

They left him there until sunset. He couldn't be sure of the exact passage of time—surely it'd been an _eternity_ —though it must've only really been a few hours. Tony thought he'd experienced pain and exhaustion before, but it hardly compared to _this_.

Leader—Myhll emerged from the castle, his lips curled in a sick, amused grin at the sight of Tony covered in sweat and filth. He and three men opened up the stocks and Tony collapsed to the platform, shaking with pain. Myhll's two lackeys hauled him to his feet and slung his arms over their shoulders. Tony cried out with the stabbing pain of his spine changing position after so long and let them drag him into the castle.

He was bleary and miserable, sore all over, hollow, and incredibly hungry. He hadn't eaten since a few bites of breakfast before the attack, which had to be almost a full two days ago now. Or something. He honestly wasn't sure at this point, and his head still hurt.

Tony tried to take in his surroundings as Myhll and the boys went. Tapestries, stone walls, silent servants darting out of the way, more tapestries, goblets, paintings, rugs, stone, more stone…

They entered a large open chamber which had rows of benches tucked away to either side. The room was dim but lit with a dozen or so standing candlesticks. At the back was a carved wooden chair. On it, sat—

"Pepper?" Tony wheezed, a puzzled whisper.

The men drew him closer and Tony's eyes focused. _Definitely not Pepper_. Though she looked a hell of a lot like her. She wore dark, shining fabrics which only made her pale skin and red hair more pronounced.

The Scots dumped Tony onto the floor, fifteen or so feet away from the base of the chair. The regal woman waved her hand and the men stepped back. She gestured and a couple servants rushed forward to give Tony a cup of—thank God— _water_. It tasted like river and wasn't totally clear of grit, but he guzzled it all down in one breath.

"Thank you," he said and exhaled in a rush. It wasn't much but it instantly made him feel clearer headed.

She offered him the smallest of smiles and allowed him a second cup. This one Tony clutched and sipped so he didn't throw up.

"I am Lady Brae, wife to Lord Brae of Castle Eruch," said the woman. She folded her hands in her lap and watched him carefully.

She sat ramrod straight in the massive chair yet still managed to looked as comfortable as if she were lounging on a bed of silk. She had fiery red hair pinned up behind her head, and Tony couldn't help staring at her. Not only was she striking, but even up close, with that slightly amused spark in her eyes and no-nonsense set to her lips, she still looked a lot like Pepper. His heart ached and his spirits lifted, even though he was pretty sure he was about to be finally handed an execution sentence.

"And you," she added. "Are the Englishman who spoke ill to my men."

"Yeah, that's me." He figured that ought to have been obvious given the fact that he was the guy who'd been just outside her castle, in the stocks, for half a day, and probably on her orders.

"Has your demeanor softened?" Her Scottish accent wasn't as thick as her men's, making her much easier for Tony to understand.

He pressed his dry lips together. A whole lot of things he wanted to say would've likely landed him squarely back in the stocks, so he opted for a tight nod instead.

Lady Brae's eyes twinkled, like she knew exactly how hard he was working to not insult her any further. "What is your name, stranger?"

Tony let out a short sigh. Couldn't she just get the execution over with? Not that he was in a hurry to die, obviously, but he was just damn tired of this whole ordeal. Better to end it then prolong the torture.

"I'm Sir Anthony Stark of Winterfell—a country far, far away—and I just want to go home." He also wanted to lay down and sleep and eat and have a shower and roughly ten thousand other things. He stayed on his knees and, with difficulty, waited for her to respond.

"Are you a spy, sent from England to infiltrate this place?"

"What? No, of course not." Tony's palms grew clammy with sweat.

She watched him with such intensity he thought she might be studying his very bones. "Would you relay to me if you truly were?" Another slight eyebrow raise.

Tony clenched his jaw. How the hell was he supposed to answer that?

Lady Brae watched him struggle with a reply before moving on without one. "What was the purpose of your journey, Sir Tony? You and your fellow knights."

"We were…we were on our way to Dunkeld. To aid our liege lord," Tony sputtered out. He doubted that adding they were supposed to be aiding the lord in battling Scotsmen would go over very well, so he held that part back.

"With what, pray tell?" Lady Brae prodded after several seconds of silence.

Tony swallowed. _Shit._ He cast around for something to say—to all his conversations with the knights. "Monasteries," he finally blurted. He remembered back to when he'd first met Mad John. "For King David. We're supposed to help build more monasteries."

Lady Brae's nod was slow and thoughtful, but Tony couldn't tell if she was buying his bullshit or not. Maybe she was just humoring him and would ask Myhll to step up and slit his throat. He shuddered and tried to pretend it was a shiver from the chilly room.

After several long seconds, she asked, "Who are you?"

"Uh, I'm Sir Anthony of Winterfell, like I told you—"

"No," Lady Brae pressed. "You've told me your name, not _who_ you are."

 _Well, that's a long, complicated story,_ he thought. His mind flashed to memories of his mom and dad, to empty mansions and flashy women and leaving pointless awards behind in cabs, to his lab full of gadgets and tools and JARVIS's voice, to his suits and his team and waking up beside Pepper. A long, complicated story he couldn't tell her a word of, without adding stuff about cars and aliens and, "Oh, by the way I'm from the future".

He swallowed thickly. Tony gulped. What could he say that would _not_ end with him getting killed? Or had that ship already sailed and she was just messing with him for kicks in his final moments?

He dug around in his fuzzy mind for something to say. "Okay, well," he started, chewing the inside of his cheek and stalling for time as his mind raced.

 _What the hell do I say?_ He couldn't make something up on the spot—he wasn't a storyteller like Thor, who was pretty much a master. What would Thor do if he were here? _Probably come up with something epic and impressive about his battle days of yore_ . _I need an epic battle story_ — _c'mon, Tony, think_ — _epic battle…_

And then Tony said the only thing that popped into his genius brain:

"I'm the son of the Lord of Winterfell," he told her. "I am—was trying to become the King in the North, after he died, before I, uh, had to run away." He'd figure out why later.

He knew it was dumb the second the words left his mouth, but he blamed dehydration and exhaustion and the ache in his back and head and knees and everything else. Then again, it wasn't like anybody could call him on his bullshit—the world was still mostly a mystery in this time period. Who would know that the Wall and the snowy fortress of Winterfell didn't really exist? By the time anybody figured out there was no House of Stark, he'd be long gone.

"The sitting King came from the South to our house—uh, castle, and my father left with him to be his Hand. He left me in command and um, I defended our...lands from lots of threats."

Tony figured it didn't hurt to paint himself as Robb, who rose up to defend his house's honor when his father was killed by a petulant, horrible little king. Robb was a good dude—most of the Avengers were cheering for him to succeed when they binged the second season, especially Thor—and surely it'd sound good to Lady Brae.

"I rode around the country, um…gathering support from all those sworn to serve House Stark. They called me the King in the North, the rightful true King." He paused, watching Lady Brae carefully, but she gestured for him to continue. "Right, so…"

He roughly recapped a number of things for the Scottish woman, making it sound like Robb's life was his own. He left out any mention of magic elements and made stuff up when he couldn't remember what happened on the show, working to explain how he ended up here. Lady Brae's expression remained neutral for a while but then she slowly got into his story, leaning forward slightly as she listened, intent and focused.

"So then, uh…I ran away. After, yeah—we lost a battle, like, really bad, and everybody—my army was decimated. And my family killed," he tossed in, hoping to gain Lady Brae's sympathy, and to explain why he was here instead of still trying to become "king." "So, um, with no choice except die or hide, I, uh, fled."

He ducked his head as if ashamed and swallowed.

"Oh, bravo, Sir Tony, _bravo_." Lady Brae smiled softly at him and he wasn't sure if she was screwing with him or not. "That was quite a tale. I'm incredibly saddened to hear of your great losses. I do not think it cowardly to flee when you had naught else."

"Uh, well, thanks, I guess." Tony shifted, hoping to ease the pain in his knees a little. The stone under him was unforgiving. "So does this mean I get to live, or…?"

"I think that will be something left up to you and God above," she replied. "I do not you think you false, nor an English spy, which is in your favor to be sure." She waved over one of her attendees while Tony tried to process what she said. "Give this man a hearty meal from the kitchens and a cot to rest on."

"Begging your, uh—but what do you mean?" Tony twined his fingers together to stop them from trembling.

"I believe you speak truly in regards to history and intentions, and you amuse me—your tale was quite compelling. Alas, as my husband forbids I take on any further servants nor another consort—"

Tony's gut squirmed. _That was an option?_

"I have therefore decided to leave your fate in God's hands." She leaned back in chair and folded her hands neatly in her lap. "You shall be allowed the chance to win your freedom."

"And I would do that…how…exactly?" He dreaded the answer before it came.

"Well, in a small tourney, of course. I will allow you a place in tomorrow's tournament. Should you survive three rounds of the sword, then God has seen fit to grant you your freedom."

A string of colorful curses ran through Tony's head and he held them in with difficulty. "And what about my friends?"

"Should they prove themselves to me, they will be granted the same opportunity on the morrow as well."

 _Crap, crap, crap…_ He supposed this was a much better option than the doom and gloom Alric had earlier predicted, but still. _So much crap_. A tournament? Three rounds with a sword? She might as well kill him now and save him the pain.

(No, not _really_ , he was just really freaking out. _Breathe, damn it, breathe._ )

"Now," Lady Brae stood, an elegant swooping gesture that sent her skirts swishing. "Rest up, Sir Tony. You have an important day to endure tomorrow."

* * *

After washing his face and hands in the bucket of water provided, Tony sat down to eat the hot meal they left for him. He wasn't surprised to find that the food sat like a rock in his gut. It was nicer than the fare he'd had with the company, and he'd been so hungry he hadn't cared _what_ kind of fare it was, but the thought of the impending tourney kinda stole the rest of his appetite.

And he wasn't at all surprised to discover he couldn't sleep, either, despite the cot being way comfier than the ground and mat he'd grown used to. He stretched gently, working out the ache in his back before laying down. He gingerly touched the bump on the back of head, which was still tender. Tony got up to pace, then laid back down. Lather, rinse, repeat. Somehow moving was better than not, even while he knew he should be trying to sleep.

He discovered there was a pair of guards stationed at his door, probably to keep him from bolting; they told him to stay in his room. The window was too small for Tony to climb through—and yeah, he tried. So barring using his washbin as a weapon and fighting his way out of the castle, he was stuck.

Was Alric still down in the dungeon? Would they put him in the tourney, same as Tony? God, would Tony have to fight _him_? His heart pounded with worry at the idea. Or would Tony simply never see Alric again? And what about Dommal and the others?

Tony rolled over on the cot to stare up at the gray stone wall, wishing he could talk to Bruce again. Or any of his team. Wishing he had some sort of clever solution out of this mess. Wishing harder than ever that this whole medieval nightmare was over. Tony scrubbed his hands over his face and sucked in slow deep breaths, hoping to relax enough to fall asleep.

Though he might've finally dozed off for a few short hours, before long, it was dawn. Too soon, Tony was going to be fighting for his life.

 _Again,_ damn it.

* * *

Tony heaved his sore body off the bed. He carefully stretched some more, working out the kinks in his back and neck from his hours in the stocks. Sunlight streamed in the small window, casting a long line of brilliance on the thin, faded rugs covering the stone floor.

Tony paced and pictured his limited experience in battle. Pictured Anselm and Mad John saving his ass. Super-helpfully pictured the more grotesque and graphic scenes in _Game of Thrones_. The man he personally killed in the forest, the bodies Alric had to bury... He wondered how the hell he'd survive a freaking tournament of swords against people who _actually knew what they were doing_.

"Tony?"

He fought off a shudder, lost in his own dark thoughts about what was to come. He didn't realize someone was talking to him until he heard it again.

"Tony, are you there?"

Tony's heart jumped. "Bruce?"

He forgot about everything else and searched for the source of his friend's voice. His attention landed on the bucket of washing water by the door. Tony dove for it, his sore knees banging against the floor. He grinned at the image of his friend in the murky water and unbidden tears sprang to Tony's eyes.

"God, Bruce, you have no idea how good it is to see you," he said. He smiled so hard his cheeks hurt. Overwhelming relief and hope billowed through him.

"Tony…my God, what…" Bruce stared in unfiltered shock.

"Geez, Bruce, hi to you too. Do I really look that bad?" Tony joked. He scratched at his thickened beard and could only imagine what Bruce was seeing. He was pretty sure he'd scrubbed off the blood and dirt from battle, but maybe he'd missed a spot. Maybe he looked more haggard than he knew.

Bruce peered closer, his face lined with worry. "How long has it been?"

Tony shrugged. "A few weeks, I think. Or a month or something. It's hard to keep track."

The physicist's eyes went wide. " _A month?_ Oh, Tony…" The image wavered.

"What? Hey, Bruce, don't—no, I'm fine, it's fine—how're things—" Tony sucked in a sharp breath, struggling to marshal himself. If his last conversation with Bruce was anything to go by, he had precious few seconds to talk with his friend. He had to make this quick. He wasn't going to waste words promising he was okay (especially when he really wasn't).

Instead, he said, "Tell me you're bringing me home." He didn't mean to sound quite so sad and desperate.

Bruce's expression crumbled into something apologetic and hope had never drained out of Tony so fast.

"Oh," he managed, before Bruce came up with a reply.

"No, it's not like that—look," Bruce sighed. "The farther out you are, the more time is passing for you. We—it's barely been—" Bruce winced and stumbled over his words. "We're trying, but we haven't had enough time to—"

"We?" Tony prompted but plowed on again before Bruce could answer. "Look, you gotta get me out of here, Banner. I'm a freaking prisoner of war in a Scottish castle! And they're about to make me fight for my freedom in some duel, and I'm pretty sure I'm gonna die here if you don't—"

Bruce's likeness flickered and disappeared. Tony's heart skipped a terrible beat and the image was back. His friend squinted, his face scrunched up like he was concentrating very hard on something.

 _Stay with me, buddy,_ Tony thought. He swallowed down a flash of panic over losing all contact with his friend. Over being stuck here forever. Over _dying_ here before Bruce could get him out.

"Just hold on, Tony," said Bruce through almost clenched teeth. "Stay alive. We're coming, I promise."

Tony opened his mouth to ask what Bruce meant by that— _we're coming_ —but then his friend was gone.

"Bruce? _Bruce?_ " He watched the stagnant bucket of water but nothing changed.

Tony sat back, pulse racing. He didn't know how to feel. Bruce said he was coming—with "we", whoever that meant. Who was he with? One of the other Avengers or someone else? He couldn't stop the flash of jealousy that Bruce had someone to get through this crap with.

Tony figured he should be excited, brimming with hope again and ready to rescued from this medieval hell. But that was only if he survived long enough to _be_ rescued and he had no idea how long "long enough" needed to be. The thought that some angry Scots would kill him before Bruce could fish him out of this time and place made him sick.

Maybe Tony could buy himself some time somehow. Maybe he could still get out of this on his own until Bruce was ready. Maybe he could actually survive the tournament.

 _Right. And maybe I can also walk on water and build a rocket ship out of wood planks and burlap._

He had a million more questions he wanted to mull over about the little information he'd gotten from his friend, but there was a polite knock on his door.

"Sir Stark? It is time."


	16. Chapter 16

_A/n: Hey guys! FF has been down all day for me, hence the late chapter (I've literally been trying periodically for eight+ hours now, oyyy). Hopefully next week I can get us properly back on schedule!  
_

* * *

 **[ NATASHA ]**

 _"Gosh, that takes me back...or forward. That's the trouble with time travel – you can never remember." – The Doctor, Doctor Who_

* * *

Natasha hauled her beamer to a stop inside an old garage. Wind whistled between the wall's rotting wooden slats. Ditching her white jacket, she hopped out and retrieved the beat-up gray hoodie from the beamer's trunk and slipped it on, then yanked off her pants. Underneath, she wore tight black shorts. Her fancy white boots went next, replaced by practical hikers. She jammed the white clothes into the trunk and ran, leaving footprints in the sand-coated floor.

She'd lost the Pockers when she'd entered the city, but wasn't about to give them time to catch up and find her. Not to mention she now had to hide in a Dead Zone, which was sure to be crawling with Scuds, many of which had likely not missed her blaring entrance. The faster she hid herself, the better. She hurried down the cracked, ancient sidewalk as the wind tugged at her clothes, kicking up enough dust to make her cough.

In the distance, past a half-crumbled, burnt out apartment building, she heard rounds of gunfire. Was that the aggressive, black tattooed Scuds or the damn Pockers? She remembered waking up in hostile territory immediately after Lazarus' bomb went off. She wasn't sure which she was hoping it'd be. Maybe with any luck, it was both, shooting at each other and forgetting entirely about her.

Natasha ducked under a broken awning in front of a hollowed-out shop at the edge of the street. She ripped a hole in the arm of her hoodie and scooped up clumps of soot and dirt to streak across herself. She'd had to look spotless to be a Coal—now she needed to look like a mess to be a Scud.

She scooped up a yellowed shard of glass to shred some rough holes in the rest of her clothes, then scrubbed off the last of her white circlet. Natasha scooped up a burnt stick that left her palm blackened and used the end of it to trace a black circlet on her wrist instead. It wasn't great, but it would pass as long as she kept her arm moving.

Ditching the stick, she continued on, taking care to get some dirt and soot into her hair too. The first time she caught sight of another person, it was a filthy child digging through a pile of garbage. She jerked up in surprise when Natasha approached, tense and ready to bolt. Natasha didn't acknowledge her past a quick look and instead kept walking. The child crouched down and waited, then resumed her task.

Natasha exhaled a breath of relief.

The second person she saw—or rather, didn't see—tried to jump her. He darted out from behind a shelled out, rusted car. Natasha heard his footsteps and ducked just in time. He sailed over and landed in the dirt with a grunt. She backed up and he hopped to his feet, waving around a spiked club. Natasha dropped and dove at his legs. He roared and collapsed. She spun and kicked him in the head. He flailed and she smacked her hand into his throat, making him gurgle and release the club. Natasha scooped it up and planted her foot on his chest.

"I need a ride out of here," she told him.

He glared up at her with a savage look in his eyes.

"Transportation," she said. "A beamer. Anything."

He snarled and smacked at her legs, trying to dislodge her. Natasha pressed her heel down and he yelped.

"I'm not gonna ask again." She couldn't take the same beamer back out—too conspicuous—and she couldn't steal a Pocker's vehicle—there were too many of them for her to take on. She needed some piece of junk that she could coax a few hundred miles out of to make it back to the base.

"You can't—" the man sputtered, spittle spraying into his unkempt beard. "Get outta the Zone."

Natasha leaned forward, driving her heel harder into the man's chest. "Watch me."

She shoved him away from her and he rolled, cursing and holding his arms to his head and chest.

Thankfully, the third person she met was much more willing to help her cause. She suspected it had a lot to do with the fact that she now had a spike-riddled bat and had the Scud on his back wheezing for breath in three seconds flat.

"T–that way!" the man whimpered. "Leeka's got a rumbler w–working! P–parked it. Cragging t–take it, just d–don't be killin' me!"

The rumbler, as it turned out, was a vehicle that clearly came sometime after cars but before beamers. It was built like an oversized beamer—at least twice as wide and long—and when she started it up, it puffed exhaust like a poorly maintained car. She winced. It wasn't great, but it was better than nothing.

Natasha pressed the accelerator gently and the vehicle chugged out into the street. It belched acrid smoke for the first minute, and Natasha regretted climbing into the thing. It was giving away her position and would probably die at any second. But after she got it going and drove it for a few streets, it stopped smoking and settled out.

She rode it down several blocks until she spotted a half-collapsed parkade, with steel rods poking out of broken cement. Natasha steered the rumbler through the entrance and hunkered down to wait until sunset to travel again.

Twice, she had to defend her new ride: a group of Scuds came upon her in the afternoon. They wandered in, talking quietly, and were surprised to find her guarding the rumbler; she had an advantage for a few seconds. Once she had one woman and two men on the ground—she didn't even need to use the club she had—the last one ran away shouting in fear.

Natasha backed up to catch her breath and moved deeper into the parkade, deeper into the shadows, but still in view of the entrance. The two she'd knocked down soon got themselves up and hobbled away as quickly as they could out of the parkade, shooting scared glances over their shoulders.

The second group that came was a little sneakier. They must've heard about her from the others and came better prepared, with weapons, extra people, and a strategy. Natasha watched them split up into two groups of four from her position, crouched behind a cement half-wall.

"She's here," she heard one say. "They said she was in here by the red and white graffiti, at the south end."

 _Two knives, three homemade clubs, a couple gutsy ones who're relying on their fists and size,_ Natasha silently assessed, flexing her hands. _And whatever that is_. One of the male Scuds had what looked like a two-by-four with one end covered haphazardly with nails. _All strong, tense_ — _ready for a fight._

Natasha held still, patiently waiting for the opportune moment to strike. The Scuds moved slowly, creating a wide circle around her rusty rumbler, weapons at the ready. They crept closer one at a time, and it wasn't until the closest few were only ten or so feet away that Natasha attacked.

She leapt out from behind the wall and was on one Scud before the rest knew what was happening. Natasha smacked the woman with her club and the Scud tumbled to the ground, clutching her arm and yelping in pain. The other Scuds gasped and shouted and cursed as Natasha snagged the wrist of a second Scud, knocking his head hard into the first. Blood spattered over her boots and the cracked floor.

The third Scud closest to her swung his nail-board at her chest. She ducked and rolled and took him out at the legs before he finished swinging. He fell with an _oof_ and a thud, and Natasha smacked her heel against his temple, knocking him out.

Three Scuds bolted in her direction to help their fallen pals. Natasha jumped to her feet and catapulted herself at the rumbler, sliding across its hood, getting herself behind them. She swung her club and missed; one Scud in a ragged Coca-Cola shirt dove at her torso, knocking her back. She kicked him away but lost her grip on the club. It clattered out of reach. He roared and made to tackle her again, but she kneed him in the nose.

The others jumped in right behind him, hoping to overwhelm her. Natasha spun and punched out, hitting a woman with scars criss-crossing her furious face. One Scud landed a lucky blow against Natasha's cheek with his knuckles, sending sparks in her vision for a split second. She dropped to avoid another fist, but caught the business end of a knife across her shoulder.

Natasha hissed but didn't slow, swinging herself around to send two Scuds crashing into each other. Coca-Cola lurched to his feet and snarled at her, blood from his nose staining his mouth red. He looked like some savage animal, with his shaggy, unkempt hair and wild eyes. He ploughed into Natasha, shoving her against the wall and punching the breath out of her. She jabbed her elbow into his neck and he fell back, wheezing.

The last remaining Scud charged with her knife. Natasha lunged into her space and with a couple quick, sharp movements, she disarmed the woman, sending the knife tumbling to the floor. Natasha twisted the woman's arm and the Scud screamed. She lashed out wildly with her other arm, smacking Natasha in the head. Natasha grunted and hooked her leg around the woman's and dropped her to the ground. The Scud's head smacked the pavement and she rolled, curling in on herself. She didn't get up.

Now that all the Scuds were down in unconscious or moaning heaps, Natasha staggered back against the rumbler's hood, panting and sweating. She leaned against the vehicle for support, her legs rubbery. There was no way she could keep this up all night.

 _What if you had to_? she thought. _What if you were here, branded a Scud? What if this was your life? Fighting for your one scrap of dark rubble and a crap, piece of junk car?_

She shut her eyes.

 _We have to fix this. We have to stop this from happening._

Natasha gingerly touched the knife wound on her shoulder, and though her fingers came back wet with blood, she determined the cut wasn't too deep. She rubbed the blood off on her shorts, retrieved her club, and climbed into the rumbler. She drove it sluggishly through the parkade, away from her attackers, on alert for Scuds. Thankfully, she didn't encounter any more.

On the north side of the parkade, close to another entrance, Natasha hauled the shuddering vehicle to a stop. She switched off the ignition with a sigh and dragged herself out of the driver's seat. She had to be ready, in case she had more company.

By the time the sun had slipped below the horizon, no one else had come for her. Natasha exhaled and stood to stretch after crouching and hiding for several hours. She rolled her shoulders and the scab on her left one pulled and stung.

Though the sound of gunfire in the distance pretty much hadn't stopped since Natasha had burst into Port Augusta, she wasn't going to stay here all night. The Pockers might've gone home for reinforcements, might still be deciding whether to brave the Dead Zone to find her or not, and she didn't want to stick around to find out if they would. Besides, she had to get back to Garrett and the gang to tell them what she'd learned at Zuiver Tech.

Natasha inhaled a few steadying breaths as she climbed back into the driver's seat of the rumbler, preparing herself to take another run through the Dead Zone. The air was warm and stale and dusty; everything smelled like ash and death. She fired up the rumbler, peeling past an ancient parking meter on her way out.

Natasha didn't get far before bullets pinged off the old, dented vehicle. She kept her head as low as she could and her club up to offer some modicum of protection. The rumbler shook, threatening to give out on her, but she pushed it on, aiming for the city limits.

Occasional barrels filled with fire dotted the sandy streets and shouts punctuated the air as she blew by. Bullets sparked and sizzled against the rumbler and Natasha floored the accelerator. A bullet streaked so close to her head, she thought it might've singed her hair, and she pressed herself lower in her seat. One snapped into the console by her hand, and she jumped, nearly sending the rumbler into a building.

"C'mon, c'mon," she mumbled. Wind slashed through the holes in the rumbler's damaged windshield.

She veered around a corner and finally saw the edge of the Dead Zone, marked with a crooked, crusty sign. Natasha held her breath until she soared past it, out into the ocean of darkness.

The vehicle had no headlights, so for a few seconds, Natasha flew completely blind, narrowly avoiding smashing into the odd cactus. As her eyes adjusted to the shadowy landscape, the sliver of moonlight highlighted obstacles. She exhaled and sat up straight, though her grip on the rumbler's shaky steering didn't relax for several more miles.

The rumbler belched out a puff of smoke and Natasha gritted her teeth, praying the thing would get her far enough away. She glanced over her shoulder and already Port Augusta was a dark smear with the faintest hint of orange on the horizon.

Natasha made it another dozen miles or so, she estimated, when the thing ran out of fuel. She coaxed it as far as she could until it puttered unceremoniously to a groaning stop.

"Great," she said with a grunt. Really, it'd performed much better than expected, but she'd been hoping to get even farther into the desert, away from the Dead Zone.

Natasha hauled herself out with a heavy sigh and started walking in the dark. She smirked a little, feeling like her time in New Australia was starting over again. Here she was, tromping through the desert at night on aching limbs after escaping another vicious Dead Zone.

At least this time, she had a direction and a purpose. And a clue about what the hell was going on.

Something like a few hours later, when the heat of the day had been replaced by crisp, biting air, the hum of a beamer sounded. Natasha froze, listening. She glanced around but there was nowhere to take cover—empty, flat land. She readied herself to play crazed Scud if the vehicle turned out to be a Pocker. She squinted in the darkness and made out the shape of a beamer with no lights skimming through the dark.

She opened her mouth to call out but hesitated. Ally or not? Then it didn't matter—they'd spotted her silhouette in the faint moonlight and headed straight for her.

The booming laugh as the vehicle approached filled her with relief so intense, she almost collapsed to her tired knees.

"There you are, little red girl," Veer called out.

Natasha's worn features burst into a wide smile. As was customary amongst the rebels, she replied, "What took you so long?"

* * *

After she cleaned herself up and was seen to by medical, Natasha debriefed Garrett and Veer in the main meeting room. She drew the layout for Zuiver Tech, noted camera positions, explained how far it was from the front doors to the server room, and from there to the elevators. The three of them debated strategy late into the night before finally breaking off to head to bed or tend to other duties.

Yumi and Ophie returned from a recon mission of their own early the next morning. They sorted out plans and schematics with Garrett in a secure room, deep in the restricted access west wing of the bunker. Yumi sat down at a wide table pushed against the wall, covered in an array of mismatched, beat-up looking ham radios to send intel to fellow rebel bases.

"Won't the Coals intercept the signals?" asked Natasha,watching Yumi adjust dials and knobs.

Ophie shook her head. "We thought so back when, too. Turns out these old beasts"—she gestured over her shoulder at the mess of radio boxes, cords, and wires—"broadcast at a low enough frequency that it flies straight under the Coals' fancy radars." She grinned.

Natasha thoroughly enjoyed knowing that broken radios scavenged from abandoned, dead cities had been repurposed to help the rebellion succeed.

"We limit our use of 'em, talk in code, bounce the signal around as sideways as we can, just in case. But it's been workin'," Ophie continued. "Even had some Coal official defect, about four years back now, confirm it—the government has no cragging clue."

Ophie joined Garrett at the table. Realizing she wasn't needed, Natasha left to go help Veer clear out Jeks' room and box up his personal items. Some of the practical things, Veer distributed to others who needed them. The rest, he took back to his own room, and Natasha left him alone to grieve for his friend.

After lunch, two Scav crews flew in weighed down with crates full of old, garbaged tech. Natasha joined the volunteers unloading the battered silver crates and taking them to a crowded storage room in one of the restricted access hallways where they'd later get picked over for usable parts.

The storage room was so jammed full with shelves and crates, haphazardly shoved inside, Natasha could barely get in, let alone add more.

"What the hell is this?" she asked Veer, who'd come to help as well.

"Yeah, if there's one thing people here are not so good at, it's putting stuff away in an orderly fashion," he grimaced.

Natasha scowled at the mess. It was not unlike Clint's basement, once upon a time, years and years ago. Before she got in there and organized the crap out of it so he could actually _find_ his Christmas decorations and spare tools.

She planted her hands on her hips. "Making stuff fit happens to be another thing I'm pretty good at." She flashed Veer a smile and he chuckled.

"On your own head, Red."

Natasha set her shoulders, cracked her neck, and got to work. Three and half hours later, she was coated in sweat, but had made incredible progress.

"That's the last of them," said Veer, shiny and smelly himself as he dropped another crate in the corridor outside the storage room.

"Thanks," Natasha replied absently over her shoulder.

He leaned his head in the doorway and gave a low whistle, glancing around the compact storage room. "Sheesh, Red, you're a cragging miracle worker!"

Natasha smirked. "Nah, just good at organizing crap." She stepped back and pointed as she spoke. "Over there's all the stuffed labelled electronics. That there's the mechanical stuff—beamer parts and what not. Those are the miscellaneous bins, that's the stuff I didn't what to do with, and these are the new crates waiting to be sorted."

Veer whistled again and clapped her on the shoulder.

"It actually _does_ all fit in here if you don't just toss it through the door into a big pile," she added with a smirk. Veer let loose his signature deep, belly laugh.

"Right on that," he agreed with another pat on her shoulder. "D'you need a hand with these last few?"

"Nah, I got it."

"You sure?"

"Promise." She shot him another smile.

"Keen. See you in the Cantina." Veer gave her a nod and headed down the corridor.

Natasha grabbed the handle of the nearest metal crate and lugged it across the floor to the neat stack she'd created in the corner. The storage room was cramped, but with everything tucked away in labelled bins and boxes, it felt much more spacious than when she'd first walked in.

She remembered the look on Clint's face when he'd laid eyes on his freshly organized basement.

"Did you make it bigger?" he'd asked suspiciously and Natasha had rolled her eyes.

"Don't mess it up or I'll slug you," she'd told him, then gone upstairs to order them some Chinese takeout.

Natasha heaved the crate onto the stack and shoved it into place. She hadn't had Chinese takeout in ages, come to think of it. Since living at the Tower, there often was somebody around to cook, or, more often than not, they just ordered pizza. With the demigod built like a brick house, the super soldier with an insane metabolism, and the "Other Guy" influencing Bruce's appetite, she imagined the Tower was largely responsible for keeping a number of pizza joints nearby in business. Not that she and Clint were slouches when it came to putting away pepperoni and cheese and—

"Whoa!" a voice exclaimed, sudden and loud and directly in front of her.

Natasha let go of the crate handles and jumped back, a pocketknife from her belt out defensively on instinct before she realized what was happening.

"Sorry, sorry! I didn't mean to scare you." Distorted by the ribs on the silver crate, Bruce gave her a sheepish smile. "Your face was so close—I, um, scared myself for a second there."

" _Sukin syn_ —Bruce," Natasha exhaled his name and snapped her pocketknife closed. She pressed her hand over her thudding heart and spat out a few more choice curses in Russian for good measure.

"Sorry," Bruce said again, wincing.

"Don't do _that_ again," Natasha told him.

"I'll try not to," he said, suppressing a chuckle. "Um, where are you?"

"Dead tech storage room." She backed up and closed the door so no one saw her chatting with a crate. "How're things on your end?" she asked, stepping close to Bruce again. "You got an update for me?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Bruce said with another smile, this one excited. "We made a breakthrough, Nat. A big, damn breakthrough, and we're so close now."

Natasha's heart sped up. _Close. Home._ "Thank God."

"It won't be long now," he promised. "Or, well, relatively—time really doesn't match up with this, um…how long has it been for you?"

She lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug. "Three weeks or so."

Bruce's likeness flickered and some of his words were lost. "—sorry. I talked to—" His voice crackled as if he was coming through a faulty radio, obscuring some of his words. "Been—four days—mixed up in—told him not—"

Natasha shook her head. "I'm not getting any of that. Bruce? Hey, Bruce?"

She smacked the top of the crate like he was on some old television set, where the picture was restored after you gave it a good whack. His image wavered.

"Damn it—Natasha?"

"I'm still here."

"We're close," Bruce repeated, and blinked into nothing before he got another word out.

Natasha sighed. "What the hell are you using, Bruce?" she murmured. Really, it was incredible they were able to talk at all, but whatever he was doing was unstable as hell.

With another sigh, she resumed stacking the crates. At first, she smiled to herself, thinking about being back at the Tower and back with her team. She started making a list of things she'd do first—order some good Chinese food, for one—and she thought about relaying stories of her time here to the team, wondered what they'd have to share in turn. She pictured telling Clint about Garrett and Yumi and Veer and...

Her shoulders sunk and sadness edged in on her excitement. When she was gone, she'd never see any of these people again. She shoved another crate into place.

 _Of course you won't_ , she thought. _They won't even exist, not for over a century_. Her heart sank a little lower. _If they exist at all._

She'd known that all along but somehow hadn't considered it until now. Going home meant taking Garrett's wide smile out of the world, and that felt wrong.

Natasha swallowed and couldn't help feeling a bit conflicted. The sadness and sudden reluctance to leave chafed against her, unwanted and prickly. She wanted to go home, more than anything. She ached to be back in her own time, her own world, surrounded by her own team once again. She missed them constantly.

But here, she had a job to do and she'd committed herself to doing it. They needed her and the idea that she could be yanked from their midst at any second bothered her. Her part in this fight would be unfinished.

Besides, she'd adapted and survived and gotten herself invested in their fight, in them. Natasha cared about their cause when she genuinely hadn't expected she would. It'd been a wise decision to get involved when it'd looked like she'd be stuck here indefinitely, but now with the prospect of going home so soon right in front of her...

She frowned as a pang of guilt hit her. She didn't _belong_ here, either. And yet, they'd become her friends. Regardless of anything else, she was going to miss them.

Natasha wondered if she should talk to Garrett about Bruce. But what would she say? _I just had a conversation with my friend who appeared on a crate, and it's almost time for me to go home._ Yeah, that sounded sane.

She rubbed her hand over her forehead and sighed. If Bruce put her back in her correct time, then Garrett wouldn't even be born for another one hundred and forty or so years. He would never know if Natasha disappeared on the mission. He would never know Natasha at all.

The thought did nothing to make her feel better.

 _Damn it_ , she thought. _When did I start caring so much?_

Natasha shook her head and forced her thoughts to center on the upcoming mission. Bruce would get her when her got her, and stressing out about it wouldn't make it happen any faster or slower or more conveniently. She stacked the last of the crates and headed out of the storage room to go eat supper with Veer and Edie.

* * *

 _A/n: sukin syn - son of a bitch_


	17. Chapter 17

**[ TONY ]**

 _"Yeah, but what if you went back and killed your own grandfather?"_  
 _He stared at me, baffled. "Why the fuck would you do that?"  
― Stephen King, 11/22/63_

* * *

Myhll and the boys led Tony outside, though this time they didn't drag him, which was a nice change. They walked past the stocks, along a dirt path around the side of Lady Brae's castle. The sun hid behind thick grey clouds as they approached a grassy area where a hundred or so people had gathered. A large, fenced-off oval captured the crowd's attention. They cheered and booed alternatively as Tony came closer.

His gut coiled tight with nerves. _You can totally do this,_ he thought frantically and knew it wasn't true the second he laid eyes on the men fighting in the ring.

They were muscular and bearded, smashing swords and shields together with angry battle cries. One wore thick leather, the other had no protection, same as Tony. They circled each other like animals, barking and roaring and bellowing. The crowd yelled in disapproval when one of the men ducked and rolled out of the way of a vicious blow.

The duel ended when one man knocked the other to the ground and drove his sword deep into his opponent's chest. The blood-thirsty masses applauded and cheered and whooped. Tony's insides churned and he thought he might pass out before it was even his turn.

"I didn't know this was to the death," he said to Myhll. He wished his voice wasn't quivering _quite_ so much. "You—she never said it was to the death."

Myhll snorted. "What did ye take 'survive three rounds' and 'fate in God's hands' to intend?"

Okay, that was true, but still. Even while Tony had been pretty much thinking nonstop about dying in the tourney—in this place, really—somewhere in the back of his mind, he'd thought, hoped, even expected that it wasn't _really_ to the death. Injury, maybe. It'd be like jousting—they didn't always die in those, right? _He'd_ be personally screwed, sure, but that was because he was inept with a sword in comparison to these guys. He didn't think _they_ would be busy dying in this thing, too. Which made his chances of making it through this whole ordeal go from about "almost zero" to "no shot in hell".

"Have cheer, ye _glaikit skamelar—_ be over soon enough." Myhll's cold smile was anything but reassuring.

Tony clenched his fists at his sides and sweat slid down his spine. He watched several rounds of men trying to kill each other go by. Sometimes somebody died, sometimes they were injured to the point they could not continue. Some were knocked unconscious and dragged from the ring. Tony wondered what became of them after that.

Lady Brae perched on an intricately carved wooden chair across the fighting arena. The chair was on a raised platform and no one stood in front of it, assuring her the best view. With each match, she clapped politely and congratulated the victor, declaring him fit for a respite. Then she put out a call for the next pair of challengers.

Tony wasn't sure how the match-ups were determined, though it seemed like a sort of Round Robin. Providing he survived his first round, he'd have to face off against another winner.

All too soon, it was his turn.

"Sir Anthony Stark of Winterfell," Lady Brae called out in a clear, ringing voice. Most of the crowd booed as Myhll shuffled Tony forward.

" _English pig!"_ someone bellowed.

"And Sir Braec of Kineardine!" Lady Brae finished and made a graceful sweeping gesture with her arm.

Myhll shoved a hefty old sword into Tony's sweaty hands as a middle-aged man with scraggly brown hair stumbled into the ring. He threw his arms wide and grinned at the crowd, who whooped and hollered in support. Braec took a deep swig from a leather canteen in his hand then tossed it aside. He unsteadily raised his sword and smiled at Tony with broken teeth.

Tony gripped his own weapon tightly and waited until Lady Brae clanged the bell by her chair to begin the match.

Though Tony's first instinct was to turn on his heel and vault out of the ring, he knew Myhll and the boys would be on him before he made it far at all. So he clenched his jaw and told himself to survive this, to _keep breathing,_ as he edged closer to Braec. He'd survived the cave, he'd survived Vanko, he'd survived the black hole and the Chitauri and Loki and Killian…he could survive this. He _had_ to survive this.

The other man swayed as he shambled forward. He took a lazy swipe at Tony and the crowd roared with approval. Tony dodged the swing and almost laughed out loud. The dude was blind drunk, and Tony couldn't remember being any luckier in his life. He took a shot at Braec, who flailed sloppily out of the way. The other man's pouchy belly jiggled as he let loose a loud laugh. Tony grinned back, afraid for a second that he was completely misreading the situation.

Braec charged. Tony jumped to the side and gave the other man swift kick to the rump when he passed. Braec yelped. He kept hurtling forward, stumbled, and fell headfirst into the rickety wood fence penning them in. The crowd bellowed, but Braec didn't stir.

Tony stared, hardly daring to believe he'd won, but Lady Brae declared him the victor. The crowd mostly booed—probably because the match had been so short and boring—but relief and hope filled Tony's chest like a fat helium balloon.

Myhll manhandled Tony off to the sidelines.

"Fortunate," Myhll commented, sounding awfully unhappy about it. "The first matches weed out the mingin' cowards and drunkards." He glared at Tony. "Don't think ye will have it so simply next round."

"Chill," Tony snapped. "I got it." He was _well_ aware of his amazing luck just now, thanks very much.

After a couple more matches went by, Tony heard his name and looked up in surprise to see Dommal pushing through the throng. Or rather, half shoved and half dragged. A pair of burly men like Myhll had firm grips on Dommal's arms.

"Dommal!" Tony exclaimed with a smile.

The kid looked like he definitely had had better days. He was grimy and bruised, and there was an unhealthy yellow pallor to his skin. A dirty cloth wrapped his left upper arm—it looked like a makeshift bandage.

"Sir Tony, I am filled with joy to see you are well," Dommal said and exhaled. Despite the crap they'd been through, despite the situation, despite everything, he still grinned. "I knew not of your fate 'till I observed you in the ring with Sir Braec, though it took much convincing before I was allowed to speak with you." He side-eyed his captors.

"Are you okay?" Tony asked. "Are you hurt? Did they treat you okay? Did you—"

Dommal held up a hand to stem the flood of questions. "I am well enough," he said, but there was a layer of exhaustion and sadness to him that made Tony's chest tighten. Not to mention that up close, Tony could see the cloth on his arm was definitely a bandage, stained the color of dried blood. "I believe I will fight soon."

"Right, that's enough," grumbled Myhll.

"C'mon, give us a minute," Tony said irritably.

Myhll cuffed Tony up the back of the head. "Shut yer gob, _skamelar_. Lest ye forget, yer still facking English prisoners 'til you win yer three. Ye do what we tell ye. If we say yer done, yer done."

Tony rubbed his head and clenched his jaw.

"Ah, let 'em jab," said one of the men holding Dommal. "Won't matter none, aye?"

Myhll rolled his eyes but complied, deciding not to hit Tony for any more attempts at conversation. After a few minutes, the crowd roared, drowning their voices out anyways. Tony's stomach knotted but it helped immensely to know his friend was okay, even if they didn't have much to say when the crowd's noise tapered off.

The crowd erupted in a chorus of boos when Lady Brae called Dommal.

"Dommal," Tony started, a spike of panic shooting through him. This might be the last time they'd speak and he didn't know what to say, how to thank Dommal for watching out for him.

"Stay strong, Sir Tony," said Dommal as the men pulled him into the crowd.

"You too."

Tony stood to get a better look at the arena. Myhll grabbed Tony's shoulder, digging his fingers into Tony's skin.

"I'm not going anywhere," Tony snapped, batting Myhll's hand away. This earned him another smack from the surly Scot, but Tony didn't sit down. He didn't move closer, either, not wanting to risk further wrath.

There were so many people, Tony couldn't see much beyond random glimpses of Dommal and his opponent. The crowd's reactions to the fight were mixed. Dommal wasn't popular because he was an English prisoner, but the guy he fought didn't seem to be well-liked either. Tony's palms were slick with sweat as the match drew on.

Dommal was as quick as ever, as far as Tony could tell. He danced around the other guy, though the Scotsman made up for it in strength. For a few minutes, Tony wasn't sure what Dommal was doing; he acted purely defensively, blocking shots and dodging away. He stayed back, making his opponent come to him, then dashed out of reach. The big guy, layered up with chainmail and armour and even a helmet, moved slower and slower the longer the match wore on. The crowd booed with restlessness and boredom but Dommal didn't waver in his strategy.

Tony's lips curved up in a slow, proud smile. _That's it, kid,_ he thought. _Tire the son of a bitch out._

Soon enough, Dommal pounced out of nowhere, all fierce, fast attacks. He sliced and hopped, shot in and out of the big guy's guard. A minute or so later, Dommal's opponent collapsed in an exhausted, bleeding heap. The crowd that had been moments before moaning about the boring match burst into appreciative cheers and Tony joined in. Through the gaps between people, Tony saw his friend take a shaky bow. He worried that Dommal wouldn't be able to triumph again in his next match—after the long bout, he looked even paler and sicker than before.

His captors led him back to the bench. Dommal dropped beside Tony, panting and swaying. It was clear he'd used up most of his energy on that fight.

Tony swallowed. "You're not going to make it through the next one, are you?" he mumbled.

Fresh blood soaked through the bandages on Dommal's arm. Dark circles stood out under the kid's green eyes so starkly he looked bruised.

"Of course...of course I shall," said the kid in a vain attempt at sounding confident. "I could best...any of these Scots...one-handed." He leaned back and tried to catch his breath.

"Yeah," said Tony. "I know you could." He offered Dommal a smile, but it was hollow. They both knew Dommal was in serious trouble.

Dommal's battle wound from a few days ago was surely infected—it had to be, after a day or two in the dungeons with nothing but a piece of tunic over it. The flush in Dommal's cheeks wasn't just from the battle; he probably had a fever. Without modern medicine, Tony knew the kid would be doomed, if he wasn't already. He looked away, struck with helplessness.

More matches went by and they all blurred together as Tony waited for his next turn. His stomach grumbled with hunger; the day had passed into afternoon. People in the crowd munched on food, watched as Lady Brae chose from a tray of goods, but no one offered him, Dommal, or the other tourney participants anything.

He frowned. _We're the ones doing all the work out here_ , he thought bitterly. _Then again, maybe they just don't want to waste perfectly good food on someone about to die_. The thought did nothing to help his hunger—or his nerves.

Twice, they heard names of fellow Englishmen called. Both times the knights failed, their bodies dragged out of the ring. Tony shut his eyes and felt awful for being glad it wasn't him, Alric, or Dommal. He wondered where Alric was—he hadn't shown up in the ring nor been brought over to Tony and Dommal.

By the time Lady Brae called for Tony's second turn, the sun was halfway towards the horizon, peeking out briefly from behind slate gray clouds.

"Sir Anthony Stark of Winterfell," Lady Brae announced. "And Eòsaph Dunmore, son of Uillieam."

This time it a skinny redheaded kid joined him in the ring. He couldn't have been more than about sixteen years old.

"Oh, c'mon," Tony mumbled. A _kid?_ At least Eòsaph was as pale and nervous looking as Tony, but that wasn't much of a consolation.

At the bell, the kid tore after Tony with a feral scream. It startled him to hear the noise coming from the lanky boy, so much so that he barely got his sword up in time to defend himself. He countered with a simple attack that Eòsaph dodged. For a few minutes, they battled in the same manner—the kid tried hard but didn't really seem to know what he was doing, and neither did Tony. They got a few minor hits in on each other, but nothing serious.

The crowd yelled out everything from encouragement to advice to insults at both of them, creating an indiscernible din that pounded against Tony's ears. For a second he thought he heard a familiar voice hollering his name, but Eòsaph charged again and Tony didn't have time to look.

Tony spun on his heel and used the kid's momentum against him. Eòsaph tumbled past Tony and fell face first into the dirt. He recovered quicker than Tony expected and the kid's sword lashed out, catching Tony across the shin. Tony hopped back, his leg stinging. He didn't think it was too deep, but it _hurt_. Blood trickled onto his foot and he took a wild swing as Eòsaph barrelled toward him.

Tony's sword hit the kid in the chest. Eòsaph's chainmail took the bulk of the hit, but Tony's sword slid off the metal. The blade buried itself into the kid's left arm and Eòsaph screamed. Tony reared back, horrified. Eòsaph made to take another run at Tony, but instead he staggered and collapsed. The crowd roared, and bile burned the back of Tony's throat.

Had he just—?

Eòsaph moaned and clutched his arm. A few people rushed forward to haul him from the ring, and Tony really was about to fall down and puke when the kid shot a quick wink at Tony. Realization dawned: the hit hadn't actually been that bad—the kid had just wanted the match to end as much as Tony did. And now the kid would look brave, even though he'd lost, as it had been after a "grievous" injury.

 _Clever little turd._ Tony fought off a smile. _Use that scar wisely, Eòsaph_ , he thought. _Should get you plenty of looks from the ladies._

Myhll was still reluctant to congratulate Tony when he pulled him back to the sidelines. He scowled and didn't address Tony unless absolutely necessary. Dommal told Tony he'd done well. Tony thanked him and guzzled down the canteen of ale a small young girl offered him.

By late afternoon, Tony was starving and tired. The small burst of energy he'd gained from his minor triumph and Dommal's win wore off the longer they waited. Even so, it was too soon when Myhll bumped him into the arena again. Tony glanced back in panic at Dommal—shouldn't the kid have taken his second turn first? Was _this_ the last moment he'd ever see his friend again?

"Sir Anthony Stark of Winterfell," called Lady Brae. This time there was a violent round of cheers from the crowds.

Tony couldn't help smirking and tossing a wave at the masses. The affirmation was damn good and helped him drown his rising dread.

"And Black Peadair of Fiden!"

Tony laid eyes on his opponent and knew he was finally, completely, so very screwed. The bottom dropped out of his stomach.

 _Holy. Shit._

The man was a bear. Tall, hairy, bulging muscles, giant black beard. He was gleeful and predatory, like a beast eager for its next meal. Like the meal was sitting right in front of him, ready to be devoured.

Tony estimated Black Peadair would cut him down in five seconds or less. He swallowed hard and his heart rammed against his ribs.

The bell rang. The match began.

* * *

 _A/n: glaikit skamelar - stupid scrounger/parasite_


	18. Chapter 18

_A/n: What's my excuse this time? Westworld. I literally just watched all of it in 24 hours and forgot anything else existed. XD If you have not seen it, go. Go now. It's 10 episodes. I'll wait. ;D In other news: prepare yourselves, friends. The end of Part 1 is nigh! Reminder that Part 2 will be coming soon (aiming for March), so sub to me or this series to know exactly when Part 2 goes up. :)  
_

* * *

 **[ NATASHA ]**

 _"You say history considers me dead. Who am I to argue with history?" – Kirk, Star Trek: Generations_

* * *

The base buzzed with activity and preparations over the following few days. They'd heard back from the other rebel bases who were on standby to deploy, the EMPs were ready, and everything was falling into place. Natasha's nerves spiked with the same pre-mission energy she was filled with before setting out on assignment for SHIELD.

Natasha went over the plans with Garrett, and helped Yumi assign people to groups for the operation to be carried out that evening. She loaded supplies into the ships, and forgot entirely about her conversation with Bruce the in hustle and bustle of the day. As the sun slipped below the horizon, the central hangar filled with people, even those who would be staying behind, ready for the mission to officially begin.

Garrett and Natasha and the rest of the lead team came in the far door and crossed to the front of the hanger. Garrett exhaled, long and deep.

"This is it," he whispered to her. "Swear I've never been so scared."

His hands trembled at his sides. Natasha reached out and gave his fingers a quick, reassuring squeeze.

"It's a good plan," she said.

He nodded and stepped forward. As the crowd's muttering and chatting died down, Natasha could see Garrett's resolve solidify. He squared his shoulders.

"First, I wanna thank each and every single one who's taking part in this." His voice echoed through the space, carrying over the anxious and determined faces. "And every one staying behind, supporting this—hell, just _being_ here, in this base, flippin' the bird to the Coalition."

Garrett raked his hand through his blond hair.

"I have no illusions that this'll be the end of something," he continued, pacing back and forth. "Can't topple what they've built in a day. We've been chipping away at them for years. This'll be a hammer blow—with any luck, a cragging good one that'll…break a leg or something."

He grimaced and a murmur of laughter rippled through the crowd.

"Whatever, screw metaphors. Look, my point is…" Garrett slowed to a stop and his eyes darted from face to face. "We worked hard, we trained, we prepared. I don't have some inspirational speech. Just get out there, be safe as you can, do your part, come home. Kick the cragging Coals in the _cragging_ ass."

Shouts went up from the crowd, followed by applause and whistling. Garrett waved them off but smiled anyways, then gave the order for everyone involved in the mission to move out. Natasha adjusted the straps of her pack and took a step forward but stopped when she felt a tug on her sleeve.

Edie peered at Natasha, half of her face hidden by her dark curtain of hair.

"Hey," said Natasha. "What's up? Everything okay?"

"In case you don't…" Edie mumbled and her cheeks flushed pink. She cleared her throat and grasped Natasha's hand, pressing something small into Natasha's palm. "In case I don't see you." She turned to hurry away into the retreating crowd.

Natasha glanced down to see a delicate, tiny green dragon made out of heavy paper. Her gut fluttered. Though they shared a room and spent most of their lunches reading together, they hadn't talked a ton. The fact that Edie still gave her a little parting gift like this, touched her.

"Edie, wait!" She caught up to the girl before she got too far away. "I...thank you."

Edie ducked her head shyly and suddenly darted her arms around Natasha, hugging her tight. Natasha blinked in surprise, then gently hugged the girl back.

"Thank you for being my friend," Edie whispered into Natasha's shoulder.

Natasha eyes prickled with emotion. Before she opened her mouth to reply, Edie let go, and slipped into the crowd. Natasha looked at the adorable dragon and slipped it securely into the stiff pocket on the side of her pack, hoping the little guy survived the mission. She hoped she would, too.

She spotted Veer climbing into his assigned ship. He startled when she grasped his arm in a tight grip and leaned close to him.

"If I don't make it back, you take care of Edie, you hear me?" She stared him down.

Veer's eyebrows rose high on his forehead and he looked like he was about to make a joke, but Natasha's dead serious expression didn't waver.

"Yeah, Red, yeah," he said quickly instead.

"She's a good kid and she needs a friend and someone to look out for her," Natasha told him sharply. "Promise me you'll watch out for her."

"Of course, I will—promise."

She held his gaze another second and released him. "Good."

His expression changed from mildly alarmed to knowing. "It'll be keen, Red."

Natasha had the urge to tell him goodbye—what if she was zapped back to her time during the mission? What if he was killed out there tonight? What if _she_ was?—but Natasha hated thinking about what ifs. Just about the only thing she hated more was goodbyes.

She forced out a smile. "See you."

Veer saluted her. "Right on that, Red."

Somehow, in his soft half-smile, she knew he heard her saying _goodbye friend, just in case_ anyways. Her eyes stung again, so she quickly walked away. Behind her, she heard Hattie ask,

"What the crag was that about?" She didn't hear Veer's answer over the noise in the hanger and blinked away the moisture trying to pool in her vision.

Natasha climbed into her assigned ship and settled down next to Garrett. He didn't say anything but offered her a quick nod. A few minutes later, their ship blasted out of the hangar, joining the half dozen other rebel ships filling the darkening Australian sky.

* * *

To the Coal's credit, they didn't have just a singular central system somewhere, where one strategic hit would conveniently knock out _everything_ , like the plot of some action movie. They'd built their little white paradises carefully, distributed their computer systems around so that if one server or generator went down, nothing else was compromised. It made the rebels' job harder—harder, but not at all impossible.

There was a reason it had taken the rebels months and _months_ to plan and coordinate, never mind all the time spent gathering materials and building dozens of EMPs. Now, finally, it all came to a head.

When the ship landed in a pristine courtyard in Whyalla, Natasha, Garrett and their team of five emerged to turmoil. The ground assault teams from Icarus base and Haven base were out in full force, battling waves of Pockers. Natasha dove behind an elaborate stone fountain for cover as gunfire swarmed into their direction.

For several minutes, everything was complete chaos. Screams and shouts from all sides. Bullets and laser bullets flying through the air. Bodies falling in bloody heaps—rebels with mis-matched homemade armour or no armour at all; white-clad Pockers, the blood like red paint splashed over them; the odd civilian who chose to run through the scene instead of following the rebels from Serenity base, in charge of clearing "regulars" from the city. Grenade explosions, the rumble of EMPs set off at different locations throughout the city, homes and buildings going dark.

Natasha bolted from obstacle to obstacle with her team away from the main scene. Ophie and the other four crowded close to Garrett and Natasha, covering them from enemy fire as much as possible. After one block, they broke free of the main fight. They pounded over the pavement, Ophie in the lead, tearing past a few civilians huddling in shock.

A group of six Coals poured down the street in their direction. Natasha jumped into the mouth of an alley with Garrett while the team dispatched the Coals. It rankled her a little to be hiding instead of fighting, but it was all part of the plan to get Natasha and Garrett to the server room at Zuiver.

"C'mon!" Ophie bellowed and they all took off again, leaping over the bullet-riddled bodies of the Coals.

They hurtled down the street and straight on towards Zuiver Tech, still shining and opposing, even after dark. They barrelled up the sidewalk and shot at the glass lining the front of the imposing building as they ran.

Natasha leapt over the window frame, slipping a little on the shattered glass bits underfoot. Several different alarms sounded, lights flashed, and security Pockers swarmed into the lobby. Natasha swerved to the right with Ophie and another team member, and they took cover behind a massive metal art sculpture. Garrett and the others made for the reception desk. The Pockers overturned coffee tables and couches, and dropped behind them.

The firefight went on too long—the seconds flew by as the rebels and Coals traded bullets and laser bullets, ripping up the pristine walls and floors and expensive furniture. The rebels had expected resistance from the Coals, but not this much right here—the majority were supposed to be dealing with the chaos two blocks over, not guarding this office building.

Natasha crouched and reloaded her weapon. She and Garrett needed to get out of this and upstairs, fast. Ophie mumbled curses under her breath and fired at the Coals. She stopped to check the walkie hanging at her side for a few seconds, listening intently.

"Serenity's crews are getting civvies evac'd _fast_ as hell," she reported close to Natasha's ear over the din. "And sounds like Icarus and Haven are spread over three districts. Coals are cragging themselves—all the generators and tech this side of Zuiver are down."

They shared a flash of a smile and refocused on shooting back at the Coals.

Garrett made a break for the bathrooms, maybe twenty or thirty feet away from the reception desk, just past the expansive lobby. The rebels behind the desk laid down some cover fire, and when Natasha and Ophie and their third joined in, the Coals scattered, leaving the opening Garrett needed.

Laser bullets scorched past Natasha, one coming so close it left a hot black streak on her long-sleeved shirt. She ducked out of sight again to catch her breath.

"We need to get _out_ of here," she growled aloud. Even if she could get herself to the bathrooms like Garrett, it was still another thirty or so feet after that to the turbolifts.

"Go," said Ophie. "We'll cover you."

Natasha nodded once and took off, trusting her friend to have her back. Her feet smacked against the tiles and she twisted to shoot behind her as she ran. Gunfire erupted behind her, fiercer than before, punctuated by shouts. Her pack jostled and shuddered on her back. Garrett motioned her his way, but bullets tore at the doorframe around him and he jumped back into the bathroom. Something tore across her side, fiery and sharp. Natasha veered away and dove into an alcove holding a fake plant and a painting on the opposite of the room from Garrett. She crashed to her knees, out of sight from the Coals.

"Shit," Natasha held her hand to her hip. It burned and bled, but that wasn't the worst part. She could feel fluid soaking into the fabric of her pack.

Hissing through her teeth, she shrugged out of the straps. The pack and its contents had protected her from the onslaught of bullets for the most part—she could feel some sore spots where bullets had nicked her. But if the bullets went through the pack to her skin, that meant…

Praying she was wrong, Natasha unzipped the top of her pack. Her heart sank. Inside, the EMP was in pieces, shot to hell and leaking. Worse still, the casing of the box holding the handprint they needed to the server room was swiss cheese.

She tossed the useless bag aside, cursing a few more times under her breath. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. Getting into the server room just got way more complicated.

Natasha realized someone was calling her name and peeked around the edge of the wall. Garrett crouched in the doorway of the women's bathroom. His shoulders slumped in relief when he saw her. She gave him a wave to tell him she was okay, and he nodded in acknowledgement.

Carefully, she poked her head out a little bit more so she could get a look at the lobby. The other rebels were still pinned down behind the reception desk and the sculpture, but they were keeping the Pockers busy. Bullets and laser bullets alike streaked over the open area, tore into walls, and riddled the shiny tile floor with smoking holes.

Natasha tucked herself back behind her scrap of wall and looked ahead to the bank of turbolifts, roughly thirty feet away. _So close_ , she thought, _and yet so far_. The door to the stairs was even farther. Either way, she and Garrett would have to make a run for it, and it was a lot of open space to cover without getting shot. With her EMP gone, however, it was imperative Garrett made it to the server room in one piece.

She took a deep breath in, focusing, the world slowing around her as her mind raced. The layout reminded here her of a mission she'd run with Steve and Thor a couple months back. Difference being, of course, back then the demi-god took care of distracting the baddies while Steve used his shield to cover Natasha as the pair of them made a run for it. So, with no Thor and no Steve, what were her options?

Garrett reached around the doorframe to shoot. Her own gun had more than enough bullets left to cover one of them getting to the turbolifts—one of which indicated it was at ground level. The EMP inside her pack wasn't any good, but that didn't mean it was completely useless, same as her pack. And she had damn good aim. Garrett let off a couple shots and slipped his head back in the bathroom.

The plan formed as fast as she assessed her situation.

Natasha snatched up her pack and wore it backwards, so the bulk of it sat in front of her. She fished out a chunk of metal that had broken off the machine and held it tight in one hand. She peered slightly around the corner again, catching Garrett's eye. She motioned for him to toss her his gun and he blinked at her like she was insane.

 _Trust me,_ she mouthed.

His mouth thinned into a line and he hesitated, glancing at the chaos raging in the lobby. With a shake of his head, he slid it across the floor. It skidded over the broken glass and tile; Natasha reached out and snatched it up. He watched her, worry creasing his forehead, waiting for her next move. She held up her hand— _wait_.

Natasha stood. The wound at her side screamed with a fresh wave of pain. She gasped and bit back a shout. She tucked her gun into her waistband, held Garrett's gun in her left hand, and readied the EMP metal with her right. She took another deep breath to focus and center her, her gaze zeroing in on the panel beside the ground level turbolift, and she threw the metal shard.

It sailed across the open space and Natasha's aim was true; it pinged against the turbolift's control panel. The buttons lit up and the turbolift dinged.

"Now!" Natasha hollered over the din to Garrett.

He bolted. She grabbed her own gun and swerved out into the open, facing the lobby. She fired with both guns, peppering the lobby and the Coals with bullets, while hurrying backwards towards the lifts. She heard Garrett shout and she picked up the pace. Return fire sizzled through the air around her, twice hitting the pack on her front, but the mess inside stopped the bullet from punching through to her chest.

Then she was in the lift and Garrett smacked the button to close the doors, huddling out of the way. Lasers crackled into the wall above her head and then the doors slid mercifully shut. The lift ascended with a slight jolt and a soft _whooshing_ noise.

Natasha exhaled.

Garrett collapsed against the wall. "Holy cragging hell, Natasha."

She handed him his gun back. "Thanks." She shrugged off her pack and let it drop to the floor. The pieces inside clattered and clinked.

Garrett glanced down. "Did it…?"

She shook her head and he paled. "Swiss cheese. Hence, using it as a shield to the lifts."

He nodded unhappily. "And the handprint?"

"We'll have to improvise."

Garrett glumly nodded again and she could see his mind spinning, the worry clawing at his chest, panic tickling his bones.

"We've still got yours," she reminded him firmly. This was far from over and she wasn't going to let him think for a second it was.

He didn't reply and his eyes strayed to her blood-soaked hip. "You're hit…"

She brushed away his concern. "I'm fine."

He grimaced and for a second she thought he was about to chide her, but then she noticed the way he curled his shoulder away from her, tucking his left arm against himself. And the droplets of blood on his shoes.

"Shit, are _you_ shot?" She stepped in close to him, tugging his arm away from his stomach. Beneath his vest, she could see the red soaking his black shirt. Between the darkness of his pants and other clothes, it was difficult to tell how much blood he'd lost, but one look at the pallor of his face, and she could tell it was a lot.

" _I'm_ fine," Garrett insisted testily.

She glared it him. It was one thing for her to have a slice in her hip and another for him to be bleeding out from the gut. He was the leader; she was just his backup. He pulled his arm away from her to hold it against himself again, and she let him.

"When?" she asked instead.

His wince this time was more one of embarrassment than pain. "Almost as soon as we hit the ground."

Natasha clenched her teeth together. That'd been at least half an hour ago—no wonder he looked so rough. The lift slowed to a stop and she readied her gun.

"We're almost there," she told him. "Just hang on."

He chuckled. "You too, Natasha."

She flashed him a smile. "Right on that."

The doors parted, and though both of them stuck to the sides of the lift and stood at the ready, no shots came. Natasha cautiously peeked into the corridor beyond to find it blissfully empty. She waited a breath, stuck her arm and shoulder out farther, then waited another breath just in case, but there was only silence. Just the muted hum of the artificial lights in the ceiling.

"We're clear," she said.

Together they ventured out in the hall. Thankfully, from here, it was a straight shot to the server room.

"We need to get this open." Garrett leaned against the wall beside the heavy door clearly labelled "SERVER ROOM" and curled his arm tighter against his stomach.

"Any suggestions?" Natasha asked. She eyed the handprint scanner—maybe she could tear apart and rewire it, but after the shootout downstairs, they were low on time. The Coals would be scrambling for back-up from any city not under attack and their resources were ample.

Garrett nodded. "My pack. Brought some bammer just in case." He turned so Natasha could access his bag.

She unzipped the front pocket. "What the hell is bammer?"

"It's old school explosive stuff," he said. "Like a sideways kinda clay. You rip open the plastic, mash it all together, stick it where you want it and—"

"Bam?" Natasha supplied with a smirk. She held up a palm-sized package of blue stuff.

Garrett grinned over his shoulder at her, though it was tired and lop-sided. "You got it."

She tore away the plastic and squeezed the blue stuff together. It had the consistency of play dough but gave off a strong chemical smell, like burnt rubber and spray paint.

"Slap it on the hinges," Garrett instructed. "Then back up—quick."

Natasha did just that. The bammer sizzled and crackled.

"Fire in the hole," he mumbled.

The hinges exploded in little bursts of flame with loud pops, and the door toppled to the floor with an incredible crash.

Natasha waved her hand to clear the smoke as they rushed into the server room. Garrett staggered over to one of the desks and set down the EMP from his pack with a _clank_. They popped open panels, flipped switches, and then Garrett tugged out the remote they'd use to activate it.

Natasha's eye caught on the blinking computer screens in the room. "Wait," she grabbed Garrett's arm before he pressed the green button. "I have an idea."

He looked at her incredulously. " _Now?_ "

"Don't set it off."

"Natasha—"

"No, listen. The Coals haven't been prepared for ancient tech all along, right?" She whirled and dashed to a computer. Natasha hissed as the hole in her side pulled and stung.

"I don't see—"

"Why take their system down temporarily when you can take it out permanently?" She typed across the slim keyboard, her nails clicking on their shining white surface.

"D'you think—can you _do_ that?" Sweat slid down his cheeks, sliding past the darkened hollows under his eyes.

She shot him a cocky smile. "I'm really good at hacking."

He huffed out a laugh, swaying on the spot. "This another one of your special skills?"

"Mmhm."

Natasha worked fast. The system was, of course, not familiar to her. She was no genius like Tony, but she'd been hacking into computers since they were a thing. After a minute where Garrett anxiously waited with his hand on the trigger, urgently mumbling her name, she found a rudimentary way into the computer's code. To her delight, as she entered a quick line of test code, the system responded.

The Coals, it seemed, had dismissed old technology in _every_ part of their lives.

She smiled. "Got it."

"For real?" Garrett blinked at her in surprise and moved away from the EMP.

"It's gonna take me a few minutes but it's working."

He glanced at the screen. "Keen…"

She didn't bother to explain the particulars as she typed hard and fast, knowing their window was limited. They should have set off the EMP by now, sending Zuiver Tech and the other half the city into a blackout.

The walls shook as something like thunder sounded outside. Garrett looked up in concern at the rattling ceiling and hobbled over to his discarded pack.

"Crag," he wheezed, clutching the walkie close to his ear. "Coals are bringing in bombers now."

Natasha's heart sank. They'd been hoping the Coals wouldn't be able to scramble so fast, what with all the EMPs knocking out communications and generators here in Whyalla, as well as several of the closest Coal cities.

"Guess they can fly faster than we thought," she said.

Gunfire peppered the halls not far from the server room. Garrett cursed and dragged himself to the doorframe, gun up and ready. His arms shook with the effort of holding it straight.

"How much longer?" he asked, pressing himself against the wall for support. "They're coming for us."

She spared him a split-second glance—he looked haggard, bloody, and about to collapse. She needed to get him out of here, but she had to finish or this whole thing was for nothing.

"Not sure," Natasha replied.

The virus she was inputting was long and complex, but it would snarl the system beyond repair. The Coals wouldn't be able to just turn everything back on after so many hours, as they would've with an EMP. Plus, this would shoot out into all of the other systems connected to Zuiver—topple one domino, and the rest would follow. It'd allow the rebels a better chance of more victories in the future. They wouldn't have to start over while the Coals regrouped.

The floor rumbled and the gunfire grew louder.

Blood soaked her hip and seeped down her leg. Natasha gritted her teeth and typed faster. Explosions jostled the whole building and the console shuddered. Garrett let out another groan behind her, and she heard him slide to the floor. She forced herself to ignore him. They did not come all this way to fail—she wouldn't let them.

"Natasha!" Garrett shouted, and she whirled around.

The shot screamed through her skin near her collarbone, and as she hit the floor, pain exploded through her chest and arm. The world spun. She gasped for breath, struggling to focus.

Garrett raised himself to one elbow and unsteadily fired. One bullet clipped the Coal in the doorway—likely the one who shot her—and he tumbled face first to the floor, unmoving. Natasha sucked in a few more steadying breaths, pulling her mind together and wrestling her pain away from the front of her mind.

Pale and sweaty and bleary, Garrett squinted at her. "Natasha…?"

She nodded and rolled onto her knees. The hole at her hip screamed in protest. She held her jaw together against the roar of pain that surged through her veins when she dragged herself to her feet. Using the console to steady herself, Natasha planted her feet and kept typing, leaving bloody fingerprints across the keyboard.

The klaxon alarms dimmed to a dull roar. Her focus narrowed to the computer. The explosions became muffled, the rumble of chaos became background.

She smashed in the last line of code. The holoscreen flashed with code and activity, zipping through all the ancient commands Natasha had laid into it. She allowed herself a small smile because it was done—she'd done it—and then she was on the floor again.

Funny, she didn't remember falling.

Light from the computer flickered above her, colors and code flashing as the system destroyed itself. Some of the alarms banging through the building sputtered and ceased. The lights on the rows of servers lining the shelves blinked out one by one.

The ceiling swirled in her vision. Natasha pressed her shaking hands to the aching, wet spot by her shoulder and tried not to throw up.

"Hey…Natasha…" Garrett rasped.

She turned her head and he swam in and out of focus.

"Did we…did you…?"

"Yeah," was all she could manage.

His battered, handsome face broke into a wide grin and he laughed. It was warm and flooded with relief and definitely a little hysterical. Had she the energy, she would've joined him, but the blood loss was getting to her. She hoped help would come soon although by the sounds of the battle still raging outside, that wasn't going to be for a while. She wanted to crawl across the floor, get up, get out. She wanted to survive this—she'd survived _so much_ —but she was so damn tired.

 _You have to hold on_ , she thought, and the voice sounded so much like Clint's. _Nat, you have to go back home. Come back to me. You have to hold on_.

 _I'm trying_ , she thought in response. Her breaths grew shallower and she didn't think she could hold on, not this time.

"Hey…Natasha?" Garrett's voice broke through her haze. "Why are you…glowing?"

 _Delirious_ , she thought. He was dying too.

She held up her quivering hand, painted red and definitely not glowing. "Not," she said.

He peered at her, eyebrows crinkling, and shielded his eyes. "Yeah, you're all...too bright and...N–Nat?"

Natasha blinked and inhaled. The world dissolved, falling silent, white, and ice-cold.


	19. Chapter 19

_A/n: Y'all are about to be very, very unhappy with me. XD_

* * *

 **[ TONY ]**

 _"Marty, you're just not thinking fourth dimensionally!" –Doc Brown, Back to the Future 3_

* * *

Tony dropped his sword.

The crowd cried out and Black Peadair hesitated. He glanced between Tony and Lady Brae, his heavy brow creased with confusion. Lady Brae raised her eyebrow and touched a finger to her cheek, watching Tony thoughtfully.

"My Lady," Tony called out. His mouth had gone dry. "I want to—er, I plead for an alternative match."

Lady Brae's laugh started as a quiet giggle, then was drowned out by the crowd's loud laughter. Tony grimaced.

"That is not how this works, Sir Anthony," Lady Brae told him with an amused smile.

"No, I don't mean a new opponent," Tony continued. He held his hands together to keep them from shaking. "I mean, I don't want to do it with swords."

Standing there holding a sword, he'd known without a shadow of a doubt he was done. Black Peadair reminded him of Mad John—giant and fierce and damn skilled. Tony knew he'd have to try to turn things on its head if he was to have a _chance_ at getting out of this. He counted on the fact—hoped, prayed, threw a very, _very_ desperate Hail Mary—that Lady Brae found him funny or quaint enough to grant him this insane request.

The crowd laughed harder while big ol' Black Peadair squinted at Tony in complete puzzlement.

"Then how do you propose to battle Black Peadair, Sir Anthony?" Lady Brae inquired. She sounded like she was humoring him.

Tony's heart clattered in his ribs. _Here we go._ Here was his last and only chance of survival. He just hoped that Lady Brae liked him enough to go for it.

He took a deep breath. "With my…with my fists, your ladyship. Ma'am."

Tony kept his attention trained on Lady Brae, ignoring the crowd as they went wild with laughter. _Yeah. I know_ , he thought.

"And," he added. "If I may, I wish to ask your…uh, beg your Ladyship to…" He cast a look over his shoulder and braced himself. "I want to fight for the honor of my friend, too. Sir Dommal."

There was no way Dommal would win another fight. Chances were that the kid was going to die in a few days anyways, but maybe there was a chance Tony could save him. It was vain and frail, but he had to try. He couldn't leave him behind. Thoughts of Yinsen left behind in the cave cropped up, and Tony shoved them away to focus on Lady Brae's soft face.

The crowd was beside themselves again. On the platform, Lady Brae pursed her lips and studied Tony, considering his requests. Tony squeezed his fists tighter until his nails pressed into his palms.

What Black Peadair and Lady Brae didn't know—what none of them knew—was that Tony had sporadic experience boxing with Happy and various personal trainers under his belt. That he'd taken self-defense courses (at Pepper's insistence), sparred (if rather unsuccessfully) with Natasha, and that Steve taught him some nifty fighting tricks. Not that any of that meant he could necessarily _beat_ Black Peadair, but it gave him a far better chance than if he was wielding a dumb sword.

 _If_ she was willing to give him the chance.

Finally, Lady Brae's face melted into a warm smile. She quickly held her hand up to quiet the crowd's jeers and shouts.

"Very well, Sir Anthony," she said. "This is most unorthodox but I must admit you bewilder me in a most pleasant way. I am intrigued to see whatever you shall do next. You may proceed with the match without weapons. And should you prove victorious, the freedom of Sir Dommal is yours as well."

The crowd erupted in contradictory reactions. Tony's knees almost buckled with relief, but he held it together enough to offer Lady Brae a respectful bow. Black Peadair stared in astonishment then reluctantly set his sword aside.

Tony swallowed against his sandpaper dry throat and got ready, fists up. Lady Brae re-struck the bell.

This time when it rang, Tony moved in a slow circle, his back to the fence. Black Peadair did the same on the other side of the ring. The bluster had gone out of the big guy for a second but he was back to looking aggressive as hell. Tony meanwhile, tamped down his fear with a spoonful of triumph.

As Tony and Black Peadair carefully assessed each other, Tony's eyes slid past the brute and caught on Dommal's. The kid's features pinched with worry but he still managed an encouraging smile and a nod.

 _Patience_ , he mouthed.

Tony's mind flashed back to the hours spent training with Dommal, and he couldn't stop a little smile of his own. _You got it, kid,_ he thought. And he waited.

Sure enough, big Black Peadair didn't wait and made the first move. He charged. Tony dodged out of the way. Peadair was faster than he looked and he spun around quick. He made a wild grab for Tony, who punched the hand away from his body. Tony stepped back, and once again, it was Peadair who acted first.

It was by no means a graceful match. Tony used his smaller size to his advantage, darting around Black Peadair's giant, meaty arms. He caught the big guy around the wrist and twisted with a move from that self-defense class. It didn't work as well as it had back then, against a human-sized opponent, but he still made Peadair yelp and fumble to his knees. Before Tony got another hit in, Peadair kicked Tony's leg, forcing Tony to stumble back.

As they battled, Tony lost focus twice, earning a hefty punch to the ribs, like a small wrecking ball. Tony dropped and scrambled away, gasping for air. When Peadair came close, Tony's retaliating punch caught him in the jaw hard enough to send the big guy reeling.

Tony clenched his teeth against the pain radiating in his hand, his chest, and his leg. He lashed out again, not giving Peadair time to recover. He rained punches on any part of Peadair he could reach, as hard and as fast as he could. Peadair lunged away from the onslaught and Tony followed.

He smacked Peadair in the nose and didn't see the man's defensive punch until it'd landed. Tony looked up at the sky and blinked the white from his vision. Peadair's hairy head appeared over Tony with a triumphant grin. Without thinking, Tony snapped his legs up. His feet collided with Peadair's rump, overbalancing the guy. It wasn't a great move but it worked well enough. As Peadair fell, Tony rolled.

Then they were a tangle of limbs flailing in the dirt. The crowd screamed and pounded, sure the end was near.

Tony couldn't figure out how, but after a few confused, terrified seconds, he was atop Peadair's chest and punching the bigger man in the head. Peadair yelped, and Tony hit him again and again. Peadair struggled but he was sluggish and woozy, so Tony hit him in the same spot. The big guy moaned and his eyes rolled back. He didn't move.

Tony slid off the man and collapsed into the dirt, trembling and completely spent. Another thirty seconds and he'd have been done for. He barely heard the crowd's roars anymore as he tried to catch his breath.

He'd done it. He'd won, he'd _survived._ He and Dommal were _free_.

Hands hauled him to his feet and Tony did his best to stay standing. The relief that he was not dead was so acute, he couldn't feel anything else. Well, that and basically every single spot Black Peadair had hit him.

 _Shit, did he have metal bones?_ Tony wondered, rubbing at his aching ribs. He could hardly walk.

Myhll and the boys were back, Tony realized, and walking him up to Lady Brae's platform. She smiled at him like she wanted to grin unabashedly but was trying to remain ladylike. He offered her a sloppy side-smirk in return, like he'd known he'd win all along. And totally didn't feel like he was about to puke or pass out or both.

"Bravo, Sir Anthony," she said with a polite incline of her head. "Well met. Well met, indeed."

"Thank you, my—your—lady—Highness-ness," Tony replied and cringed. He had no idea how to address her.

Her eyes twinkled and either she liked his idiocy or ignored it. "Upon this day, you have proven yourself a powerful warrior and God has chosen to spare your life and that of your travelling companion, Sir Dommal. Your freedom is therefore granted, as promised."

The crowd cheered and Tony's pulse quickened. These people were so fickle, he realized. This morning, they wanted him dead and now they were gleeful to let him go. He swallowed the comments bubbling to his lips—he was _this close_ to freedom, and he wasn't going to screw it up now.

Instead, he nodded and held his teeth together.

Lady Brae waved her hand in a wide arcing gesture. Myhll and the boys released their hold on him. Myhll's face twisted up in an angry scowl and he shot a scathing glare at Tony. Tony smiled back, even though it hurt his split lip. He wasn't gonna let this dude rain on his parade.

They led Dommal out to stand beside Tony. The kid bowed deeply and thanked Lady Brae.

"I am glad to have met you, Sir Anthony," said Lady Brae warmly when the cheers had died down. "You are most peculiar and _most_ entertaining."

Tony bowed. "Anytime, your Worship."

She nodded at him again. "Be well, Sir Anthony. You also, Sir Dommal. You have chosen your friendship wisely. Be on your way." She waved at them again and Tony hesitated.

"Sorry?"

Was he missing something? Was that it? They just…left? Weaponless, starving, injured, and in Scottish territory?

 _Where the hell are we supposed to go?_ Tony thought.

"Until we meet again," said Lady Brae and shook her hand at him dismissively.

Tony glanced around the chattering people, tendrils of panic sliding through his veins. His mind jumped to Alric, probably still cooped up in the dungeon, and possibly other English knights who hadn't fought in the tournament.

"But my other friends—"

"They shall be given the same opportunity before God and my people to earn their freedom as you have," Lady Brae promised. A touch of annoyance crossed her expression.

Tony chewed the inside of his cheek. He didn't want to do anything to jeopardize his and Dommal's hard-won freedom, but it was wrong to leave the others behind. He looked back over his shoulder at the crowd, wishing he could see Alric's steadying presence somewhere.

Beside him, Dommal shook his head. "There is nothing to be done, Sir Tony," he whispered. "We must depart at once."

"Sir Anthony," said Lady Brae. Her voice took on a sharp edge. Tony snapped his attention back to her. "Do you no longer wish to be free?"

"Of course I do, it's just…"

"Then be on your way." She emphasized the words in a way that suggested there would be trouble if he didn't.

Tony swallowed. "But just like that? Like this?" He glanced up at the sky, where the sun was dipping towards the horizon. He looked down at his empty, filthy hands. His horrible, tattered clothes. "I have no food, no weapon, no…."

 _Home. Place to go._ And night was only a few hours away.

"Sir Anthony, while I find your oddness charming, it is beginning to wear thin, as is my patience," Lady Brae warned. "This tourney shall not be delayed any longer. If you still wish to be a free man, then leave now or we shall return you and your companion to the dungeons."

Another glance at Dommal. The kid's expression pleaded, _begged_ Tony to go. His gut clenched. Tony hated the idea of leaving Alric. He hated the prospect of trying to protect Dommal once they were out this camp, when the kid looked like he was struggling to stay upright. He had no idea how either of them were going to survive in the Scottish wilderness, but they couldn't stay here.

So Tony and Dommal bowed again to Lady Brae and walked out of the ring. The crowd parted for them and the people cheered and patted them on the back as they passed. Then they were out, and the crowd's fleeting attention was back on the ring as Lady Bare announced the next match.

Tony stumbled a few steps but forced himself to keep going. Keep walking even though his leg was still stinging and his head throbbed and his ribs ached. Even though he still wanted to puke or collapse or both, even though Dommal hobbled and limped at his side, and they were leaving Alric behind. All that aside, they were just two battered Englishmen in hostile territory, with no food, no supplies, and no direction.

Honestly, Tony was so used to the feeling of being _utterly screwed_ at this point, he barely noticed. Just kept walking.

* * *

Tony and Dommal followed a dirt path away from the castle, far away from the noise of the tourney crowd. Tony was dizzy and sore—probably dehydrated, definitely freaking hungry—but he forced his feet onward. Dommal didn't look much better than Tony felt. The kid's skin was still unnaturally pale, glazed with sweat, and every movement was a chore, but Dommal pushed, matching Tony step for unsteady step. They had no energy to use on words, so they stayed quiet.

They shambled past men in carts coming back to the castle and homesteads for the night. Past farmers putting away the day's haul. Over grass and past trees and more dirt and fields and more grass…

They were deep in a thick forest by the time the moon was high over their heads. Tony had spotted the sea of trees in the distance when they'd left the castle. He'd figured it'd be good shelter and a decent place to find water or food, and Dommal agreed. Tony had a sinking feeling the kid wasn't going to make it out here more than a few days, but did his best not to dwell on that.

Finally, the pair decided it was safe to stop. Dommal found them a thick tree with low branches and forced himself to climb.

"Really?" said Tony, watching the kid struggle. "What's wrong with this very cushy looking moss and grass here?"

"Would you prefer…waking…to…" Dommal panted. He stopped climbing for a second to make a clawing gesture and he gnashed his teeth.

"Fine, I get it," Tony grumbled. He reached for the bottom branch and followed his friend up.

It was agonizing, pulling himself up each branch, slow and brutal, his exhausted limbs screaming, his battered body protesting every movement. There was a lot of awful grunting, moaning, hissing, and gasping between the two of them as they labored up the tree. But Dommal was right: Tony wasn't going to come all this way just to get eaten by wild animals while he slept, so he climbed.

Tony copied Dommal and settled onto a wide, hefty branch, then hugged the tree. He pressed his face to the scratchy bark and groaned again. Tried to breathe, tried to sleep. Hoped he wouldn't fall.

A little lower down and on the opposite of the tree, Dommal chuckled. "Be well, Sir Tony," he said and exhaled heavily. "I imagine the worst is behind us."

Tony grunted. _Even after all this crap, he's still managing to be cheerful about it._ When Bruce finally came for him, Tony would really miss the kid.

Either the tree or the branch were thick enough or Tony slept without moving, because he woke around dawn, still perched in the tree. He was stiff and hurt even worse than he had before. It made climbing down even more unpleasant than going up. Dommal was already down there, leaning against the trunk's base.

Tony sank into the grass beside him to catch his breath. Grime and sweat covered him, and everything hurt. He thought long and hard about sitting under that tree for a day or twelve without moving. It was incredibly tempting. Except he was so _hungry_ and his mouth was sticky—if nothing else, he knew he had to find himself and Dommal some water as soon as possible.

"You thirsty?" Tony asked. He held still, trying to banish the throbbing aches and pains all over.

The kid moaned. In the light of day, Dommal was even worse. He looked barely conscious, barely even alive. Tony's gut jumped with worry.

"Kid?" Tony prodded.

"Can't…move…" Dommal breathed and kept his eyes shut, like it was too much effort to open them.

Tony's gaze darted to Dommal's bandaged arm. The cloth was black and red and Tony knew if he unwrapped it, he'd find the wound underneath riddled with infection. He blinked away the sudden prickle in his eyes.

"No worries, buddy," he said. "I'm just gonna get us some water. You stay here."

"Thank…you…" Dommal whispered. "Bud-dee…"

Tony got his feet under himself and lugged his body up. He could hear the faint rustle of water nearby and trudged towards it through the morning dew, shivering and miserable. He had no idea how he was going to get some water into Dommal or if it even would matter if he did.

 _Damn it, kid_ , Tony thought. He shoved his hand across his eyes to clear the tears trying to gather. He absolutely did _not_ think of Yinsen, bleeding out in the cave.

Finding the running stream he'd heard, Tony fell to his knees in front of it and splashed handfuls of the icy cold water into his mouth and onto his face. He leaned back on his hands, panting and already clearer-headed.

Tony helped himself to more water when his breathing had steadied. He cast around for something to carry some back for Dommal, but came up empty. The best he could do was cup his hands, which was only to give the kid a few sips at best, but Tony didn't know what else to do.

Dommal choked on the little bit of water but thanked Tony anyways.

Tony plopped down beside his friend. A long stretch of quiet passed. Tony listened to the birds chirping and Dommal's unsteady breathing.

"All right," Tony muttered to himself. "What's the plan?"

He sighed. He didn't have one. Didn't know how he could even form one. At least when he'd been with the group of English knights, _they'd_ had a destination and a purpose—and food and weapons—and he could tag along, pretending he had a purpose, too. Now what the hell was he supposed to do? Sit here and wait for Dommal to die? Aimlessly wander the Scottish countryside? Try not to die himself, _again_? Stay rooted to this spot until Bruce showed up with the rescue party?

Tony scrubbed his hands over his face. Simply sitting here for a few days sounded pretty dandy. He had water and shade, he had Dommal for however long the kid lasted. And while he was still crazy hungry, he probably could survive for a while longer without food. He could probably try to catch a squirrel or something at some point, but right now he was so banged up that every movement was herculean.

Plus, maybe if they stayed put, Alric or another Englishmen would find them. It was an extremely slim hope, Tony knew—there was a lot of country out there and Alric would have no idea which way Tony and Dommal went. And that was assuming Alric fought in the tourney today _and_ survived all three of his battles _and_ was released.

Tony closed his eyes and shoved all his thoughts away. He'd rest. He would rest for a little bit and then try to get up and scavenge for food. He'd make Dommal eat something and hope the kid could hang in there a bit longer. Just until tomorrow when Tony would be strong enough to carry him or build a stretcher or something. Yeah. Yeah, that was a plan.

Tony had almost dozed off when he heard twigs breaking. He jerked awake and hissed through his teeth as his body protested the sudden movement. Dommal didn't react. Tony stayed still, listening, reminded of the day he'd first woken in medieval Scotland. Maybe he'd be incredibly lucky and get found by somebody he could run with.

The rustling noise grew closer and Tony was pretty sure it was man-made, not animals stirring in the underbrush. He stood with difficulty, clutching his ribs and looked around for a weapon, just in case it was a threat after all. He scooped up a thick fallen tree branch and grimaced.

 _Better than nothing,_ he thought grimly.

A large man emerged from the dense trees and spotted Tony and Dommal at once. The guy didn't charge in an attack or look surprised. He walked straight for the Englishmen. Tony tightened his grip on his stick, worry coiling in his gut.

 _Friend or foe, friend or foe?_

"Found ye at last, aye, English?" the man called as he neared.

Tony's heart sunk. The guy talked like Myhll, with a heavy accent, and Tony suspected that meant this was not about to be a friendly encounter.

"Ye see, we serve our Lady," said the Scotsman. His tone was conversational, like he was chatting about the weather, but there was a glint in his eye that put Tony on edge. "We serve her best we can. An' we's would die for her, ye believe it. But some's of us…some's of us think she can be a mite…generous. _Too_ generous, ye see."

Tony swallowed. He had a very uncomfortable feeling he knew where this was going. "Oh yeah?"

"Sometimes we head out after the tourney," the man said as he came to a stop about fifteen feet away from Tony. "An' we clean up the lingerin' mess. So's the better to serve our Lady, see. Wouldn't want some's no good spyin' English pigs comin' back on her."

"I'm not a spy," Tony replied quickly. His mouth was bone-dry and his heart bashed around his chest. Dommal must've passed out, because the kid didn't stir, and Tony knew he was on his own.

" _Och_ , we won't take no chances." The Scot unsheathed his sword. "Ye understand?" His grin was as chilly as the water in the stream.

A string of curses ran through Tony's head and he held the stick with both hands. He sucked a frightened breath into his lungs and pretended, probably poorly, that he wasn't scared at all.

"We'll be goin' to finish this now." He aimed his sword towards Tony and cast an amused look at Dommal's unmoving form. "An' look 'ere! One's already dead." His toothy smile sent cold fear sliding down Tony's spine.

"Leave him alone," Tony growled.

The Scot laughed and attacked.

Tony dove out of the way. The Scot bellowed and chased him, viciously swinging his sword. The tip of the blade zinged past Tony's ear. Tony dropped and rolled far away from Dommal. He popped up on his feet as the Scot lunged. The sword hit against Tony's branch with a solid thunk, splintering the branch. Tony blanched—now he had two sticks to work with, but that was only going to last so long.

The Scot roared and rushed at Tony again. Tony stumbled, narrowly missing a slice to the gut. He spun away from his attacker, moving in the direction of the stream, hoping maybe he could somehow use the water or mud or a rock or _something, anything, just get him away from the kid—_

Tony tripped, landing on his back, and the air burst out of his lungs. The other man raised his sword and took a step, but stuttered to a stop, the blood draining out of his face.

"God above!" The Scot reeled, eyes wide with panic.

 _There's something behind me, isn't there?_ Tony thought, gasping to get his breath back. He could picture a massive bear hovering mere feet away and knew he was dead no matter what. What else could make the guy suddenly look so scared?

"What is this witchcraft?" the man shouted, staring at Tony in horror and holding up a hand as if to shield himself.

Tony only had a half second to wonder what the hell was really wrong—a glance down at himself revealed nothing weird—before the guy charged again, this time terrified instead of angry. Tony flung his paltry branch up in defense. The Scot bellowed and his blade crashed into Tony's stick, cutting through. It plunged straight down at Tony's chest.

Tony screamed and everything went white.

* * *

Cold air. His feet slamming into something solid.

Tony cut off his terrified scream as the world righted itself inside a familiar, old abandoned house in New York.

He clawed at his chest. No gaping wound, no sword stuck between his ribs. No medieval clothes, either—instead, his Iron Man suit. _What the hell?_ He sucked in a breath and looked up.

Opposite from him, Natasha stood frozen in shock, her hand outstretched in front of her. Lazarus' monologue hit its dramatic peak as the machine in the center of the room whirred and glowed eerily pink.

 _Holy shit_ , Tony thought. _Bruce brought us back_.

Back to before the time bomb went off.

 **-END OF PART 1-**

* * *

 _A/n: I know, I'm sorry! I'm sure you have many questions, and they_ will _be answered! The rest of the gang will be appearing in Parts 2 and 3, coming soon, so please subscribe to the series (or me, via author alert) to be alerted when I post them. :) The plan is for Part 2 to be going up in March 2017 - I will be posting a note on this story then to tell you it's up. Thank you for reading and if you have a sec, I'd love to hear what you thought! Feedback is love!  
_


	20. ANNOUNCEMENT: PART 2 NOW LIVE

_**ANNOUNCEMENT:**_

Hello all! I said March 2017, and here I am with Part 2 finally (the last couple days of March is still March! XD). This is the promised note to let everyone who subscribed to Part 1 know that Part 2 is now live. It's called _it's in the past we can make this leap_ and is now live on my profile (FF won't let me link here).

I put an author's note at the beginning of Part 2, but just to let you know here as well (where I have more space to explain): Part 2 unfortunately will not be uploaded on the same super duper fast schedule that I was able to post Part 1 in. Part 1 was completed entirely, in full, for Marvel Bang 2016 and I was therefore able to upload it fast and furious here on FF.

I wanted to make sure I upheld my promise to you guys about posting Part 2 in March 2017, but I am not as far ahead on writing it as a I was hoping, as well I am temporarily one beta down. This means that chapters may be slow coming as I keep writing and working with my betas, but I just want to assure you they _are_ coming - I am working on it, and I promise you I will _not_ abandon this fic or series. I have come way too far and still have this whole story as well as Part 3 to tell. ;)

I look forward to hearing your thoughts on Part 2! \o/ Thanks for sticking around or for discovering this fic now! Enjoy!

~Red Bess Rackham


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